


Of Physicists and Janitors

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Gattaca (1997)
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - Canon, Canon Disabled Character, Depression, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts, janitors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2018-06-09 07:27:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 35,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6895468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vincent is still a janitor at Gattaca when Jerome Eugene Morrow joins as an engineer. Eugene is trying to rebuild his life after the "accident" and the snobs he has to work with at Gattaca aren't helping. Frankly, the only person he likes there is the janitor.<br/>Or, the one where Jerome Eugene Morrow actually does work for Gattaca.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

If Vincent kept an eye on all the new employees at Gattaca—well, all the employees that did the actual work, the navigating and the equations and the management, not the janitors and maintenance workers like himself—he did it with only the most selfish of motivations. There was a part of him that catalogued all their small, insignificant traits (mannerisms, clothes, even posture) in order to see what Gattaca looked for in an employee.

Of course, that was a foolish impulse. He knew what they looked for, and it was all about the genetics. They required the perfect genetic code, something a faith child like him could never acquire no matter how much he worked on details like posture, portfolio or his handshake.

Still, he kept an eye on all the new employees. Besides trying to figure out what Gattaca looked for, he liked to fantasize. He liked to pretend he was one of them, one of the old employees welcoming the new worker, or the new guy himself, perhaps surprised to finally be hired by the prestigious company, perhaps arrogant enough to take it all for granted. He liked to memorize their names and their habits, remember each of their accomplishments. All he did was vacuum and scrub the windows and take out the trash, but this way he felt like he was part of all their achievements.

And, lo and behold, one day in April, someone quite interesting showed up.

The first time he showed up in a wheelchair, Vincent thought it might be a fluke. He figured the man must have broken his leg or sprained his ankle, probably in some dangerous athletic pursuit only viable to an extremely fit valid like the type they hired at Gattaca. He wasn’t wearing a cast, sure, but perhaps something less bulky under his clothes.

Either way, the man was left at the bottom of the steps into Gattaca staring up for ten solid minutes, and no one stopped to ask him if anything was wrong or help him. So Vincent, good little janitor that he was, hurried outside to lend a hand.

The man didn’t notice him approaching, even though the rush of people on their way up to work had already passed him, and now there were only a couple stragglers still climbing the steps, carefully not making eye contact with either the man or Vincent, staring at their own feet. The man didn’t seem to notice anything. He stared up the stairs, his eyes unfocused and his mouth slightly open, the sort of hazy expression one rarely found in such a focused, intense environment as Gattaca, even on the maintenance workers.

“Excuse me,” Vincent said.

He was right beside the man, having climbed down all the steps, but the man still neither noticed him nor responded. He shut his mouth with a snap, clenching his jaw tight, and his brow furrowed. But he still didn’t answer.

“Excuse me,” Vincent said, and gently touched the man’s shoulder—barely touched it, in case he turned out to be squeamish about physical contact with a janitor. “Can I be of assistance?”

The man glanced up now, his eyes finally focusing on Vincent, raking over every inch of his frame before settling on the stairs again. Vincent half expected him to go back into his daze again, but instead he said, “I don’t suppose there’s a ramp.”

British accent. Huh.

“I think there is, actually,” Vincent said. “It’s a little bit out of the way.” He pointed the general direction, adding, “I can lead the way there, if you want.”

The man smiled stiffly. “Thank you, I would appreciate that.”

He followed, slowly wheeling behind as Vincent walked towards the side entrance where the ramp was. It was taking a while, and Vincent cursed mentally as he thought about the time he was losing cleaning the bathrooms. Caesar, his boss, would have his head.

“Do you want my help?” he asked the man.

“Thank you, you are already helping.” British accent mixed with confusion.

“No, I meant with…” Vincent gestured awkwardly at the wheelchair. “If you want me to push you, I can. It must be tiring.” Although valids did have strong hearts and bodies, so the exertion probably meant little to the man.

Predictably, the man tensed and said, “I think I can handle it.” Brief. Snappy.

Fine.

When they got to the ramp, the man insisted on going up that on his own as well, and opening the door for himself. Vincent still followed him in and realized, when they had gotten inside, that the man was still lost. He didn’t say anything, but he had begun wheeling himself in the wrong direction entirely, the direction which led to the shuttle launch area. There were no launches for hours, and there was no way a man in a wheelchair would be going on any of them. Vincent ran to catch up (the man could go quite fast when in a temper, apparently) and stood in front of the wheelchair.

The man glared at him.

Vincent said, “I’m sorry, sir, but you’re going the wrong direction.”

“How would you know where I’m going?”

“That’s the launch area.”

“Maybe that’s where I…”

A hearty voice cut through the argument. “Morrow!”

Vincent and the man both turned to the side to see none other than Director Josef striding over, his mouth stretched into a welcoming smile. So the man was in Josef’s division. The division Vincent wanted to be in, the one he applied to every few months even though every time his application was yet again rejected.

Director Josef said, “Where have you been? You’re fifteen minutes late. I thought maybe you were going to back out.” He winked—actually winked—at the man in the wheelchair, completely ignoring Vincent. As usual. But Director Josef acting this genial, even towards a treasured employee, was not so normal.

Who was this…Morrow?

Morrow, whatever else he was, at least did not appear to feel as hostile towards Director Josef as he did towards Vincent. He gave the man a fake smile and said, “I got lost.”

Which only accounted for the past minute or so, but Vincent supposed he could spin his tardiness as he chose. When he got back to Caesar, he himself would have to come up with a good excuse for not just giving Morrow directions to the ramp and getting back to his own job. Saying he thought it would be more polite was not going to cut it, and he suspected Caesar might guess the truth—that he liked being around actual employees, the kind that wore suits and spent the day doing calculations instead of cleaning toilets, even if he was still only a lowly janitor himself.

“Well, come with me, now,” Director Josef said. “I can give you the grand tour.”

“The wheelchair accessible tour,” Morrow said. “I expect that will be rather shorter.”

He was still smiling the fake smile, and Director Josef didn’t seem to have noticed anything off, but his hands were clenched in his lap. What was his problem? Heck, if Vincent had been offered a tour of Gattaca by Director Josef himself, he wouldn’t have been equivocating about an injury.

But Director Josef didn’t object to Morrow’s tone, only agreeing with the qualification and leading the man off towards the elevator. Almost everyone at Gattaca used the stairs as a point of pride, and the first DNA checkpoint was located right by them, but Vincent supposed for Morrow that wasn’t an option as long as he needed to use the wheelchair.

As for Vincent, he stood around for another minute imagining that he was going with them, that he was the one Director Josef found worthy of “the grand tour”. In the end, though, it was too much of a stretch even for an imagination of his flexibility, and he sprinted back to rejoin the rest of the janitors and apologize to Caesar for wandering off.

Caesar just shook his head and sighed. “Sometimes I wonder why I bother with you, kid. It’s too early for a launch. What was it this time?”

“A new employee,” Vincent said. “He was stuck at the stairs outside. Couldn’t go up them because he was in a wheelchair.”

“New employee and he’s already got an injury,” Caesar said. “Hope he doesn’t bring us any bad luck. Did you catch his name?”

For all he acted stern and disapproving of Vincent’s dreams and shenanigans, there was nothing Caesar liked better than a choice piece of gossip. Vincent grinned. He was more often in the position to hand off gossip than any of the other janitors, and Caesar knew it. Might as well make the boss work for it.

“Yeah, I think the Director may have said it,” he said. “Only the last name, though. Not the first. Or the middle,” he added, just to draw out Caesar’s curiosity a little bit longer. For all he knew Morrow didn’t have a middle name. For all he knew, the man didn’t even have a first name.

“Well, what was it?” Caesar asked.

“Morrow,” Vincent said, drawing the word out and wiggling his eyebrows. “Know anything about him?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you,” Caesar said, crossing his arms. “You’re much too interested in what’s going on with the navigators. I keep telling you, it’s our job to clean the shuttles, not ride them.”

“So you don’t know anything.”

“No. Let me know if you find out anything else,” Caesar said. Catching Vincent rolling his eyes he said, “Hey. I can be curious. I don’t get any funny notions just hearing about the navigators, do I? It might end up being important to my job. Sometimes I have to talk to these guys.”

“I’ll let you know,” Vincent said, with a growing sense of exhilaration.

Morrow. An employee like any other: valid, intelligent, handsome, entitled and obnoxious. But he had made it in and had Director Josef’s approval and friendship, and Vincent couldn’t help but feel a certain sense of solidarity with him. He pumped his fist out of Caesar’s line of vision. Someday, that was going to be him.

///…///…///

When Eugene got home from his first day at Gattaca, he couldn’t help but sigh in relief.  He maneuvered his way out of the wheelchair and into one of his more comfortable lounge chairs and took out a cigarette. They said they were bad for your health these days, but Eugene didn’t have a genetic tendency towards addiction so he could stop smoking at any time, and his heart could take it. And if a car hadn’t managed to kill him, he doubted a stick of burning tobacco would. Wistfully, he half wished it would, that the cigarette would turn out to be poisoned, perhaps by some jealous contender for the job he had just gotten, perhaps from the janitor who had shown him into the building wanting to kill him for his tone. He inhaled deeply and exhaled. No, still alive.

Pity.

He had promised his parents to stop vegetating after the accident, even though he knew he could afford to live off their money a little while longer. He had promised to get a job, clean up his worse habits (the reason he was just smoking instead of sipping some tequila) and act like the well bred man he was. Bred. Ha. The well engineered man he was, more like. Didn’t it shame them, seeing the son they had pinned all their ambitions on go to pieces? Wasn’t he just such a disappointment? Couldn’t even win a gold medal, and now he spent half his time thinking about death. How terribly morbid.

But that wasn’t fair to his parents. They didn’t know everything. He’d told them he’d been drunk when the car hit him, the crowning disaster in his chain of alcohol abuse and the crowning factor in their disapproval. No one had ever found his suicide note, and when he’d gotten out of the hospital he’d torn it up. They didn’t have to see his weakness. No one did.

No, his parents weren’t disapproving (they claimed). Just…concerned. And so he’d promised them to get work, respectable work. He would never do anything as glorious as the Olympics, never again, so now he would do something…reputable. Which was how he had ended up deciding on Gattaca.

Inhale. Exhale, spiraling smoke into the air. Fire and breath, both symbols of life. Symbols of failure, in that aspect. Eugene extinguished the cigarette on an ash tray next to his chair and simply leaned back.

Gattaca had been supposed to be a noble job. It elegantly combined scientific office work—and despite the fact that Eugene had spent all his life as an athlete, he wasn’t actually all that terrible at physics and science—with the idea of a field that had a dream, exploring the far reaches of space and taking terrible risks. People still saw it as a company that made dreams come true, and perhaps Eugene, in joining their staff, had been a little taken in by the hype.

One day of work later, he had to face the facts: it was one of the snobbiest establishments he had ever encountered. DNA tests were apparently mandatory just to enter the building, drug tests instituted nearly every day. Ridiculous. Of course, they assured him he wouldn’t be subject to as many drug tests due to his disability—dealing with the catheter would be more trouble than it was worth. Eugene had smiled politely and said he appreciated it, privately wondering whether that meant he could show up at work drunk on a regular basis. It would probably help him deal with their idiocy even if it would drive his parents insane and do little to advance his career.

He lit another cigarette. Those weren’t allowed on Gattaca grounds, so he’d have to get his smokes in the morning and during lunch break, and plenty with his vodka at night. This Gattaca job was going to be just a bundle of stress with nothing glorious about it. He could already tell.


	2. Chapter Two

Vincent didn’t speak to the elusive Morrow for another four days. When he did, it was mostly by accident. He ran into the guy—actually ran straight into him, wheelchair and all—going around a corner on the way to clean the bathroom. He ended up almost falling in Morrow’s lap, but the man caught him with surprisingly strong arms (perhaps not so surprising for such an utter valid) and pushed him back onto his feet again.

Vincent blushed and stammered, “I’m sorry, sir. I guess I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“In a hurry?” Morrow said coolly. By the tilt of his eyebrows, he was amused.

Vincent gritted his teeth, his face only growing hotter. Valids and their condescension. He would take it from the directors, and he would take it from the more experienced workers here, but he didn’t need to take it from the random new guy who looked down on him for holding the best job he could with his genetic status. “Yes. I have a job.”

He took a step to the right of Morrow, but Morrow grabbed his arm. “A moment.”

“I have a job,” Vincent repeated.

“And you can get back to it in a moment,” Morrow said. “You had enough time the other day, didn’t you?”

Vincent glared at him, remembering how late the idiot had made him. “No, I didn’t. And…” He paused. “You remember me?”

Real Gattaca employees, the ones working on calculations, the ones that someday would go to the stars, never wasted brain space on remembering the names of people lower on the totem pole, janitors and the like. And Morrow was just the sort of snob to forget receiving help, especially from someone like Vincent. But then, it had been only four days. Perhaps that helped a bit. He wasn’t a full blown Gattaca man yet.

Morrow narrowed his eyes impatiently. “Of course. I’m crippled, not brain dead.”

Okay, so still the arrogant Gattaca man. Vincent rolled his eyes and was about to retort when his brain processed the second half of that response. Wait. “Crippled?”

Morrow blinked.

Vincent looked at Morrow’s face. Then at the wheelchair. Then at Morrow’s face again. An idea was slowly blossoming in his mind—the idea that he, Vincent, was acting kind of like a jerk.

“Uh,” he said after a moment of Morrow just staring at him had passed. “Sorry. I hadn’t realized…”

“What did you think the wheelchair was for?”

“Sprained ankle?” Vincent suggested, and he winced at the look Morrow shot him in return. In retrospect, of course a valid would be far too proud to take up a wheelchair over something that minor. Especially a man like Morrow seemed to be.

He expected Morrow to give him a good tongue lashing. But instead, Morrow simply said, “Paralyzed from the waist down.”

Vincent bit his lip. To ask him how he had been paralyzed would be rude. To ask him how he had managed to get hired with such a disability (at Gattaca, of all places) would be even worse. Instead he said, “Sorry. What was it you wanted?”

Morrow continued to glare at him, sitting straight up in his chair, hands tensed on the wheels. He said, “You know your way around the building.”

“Yes.” Of course he did. He’d mopped pretty much every hall of it by now, and wandered daydreaming through each of them in turn when the work was done.

“I can’t find Director Josef’s office,” Morrow said. “Show me the way there.”

His tone was demanding, angry. Even at Gattaca people were generally more polite when making a request. Condescending, but not so confrontational. Vincent sighed. “Sure.” He would have to have patience with Morrow. After all, a moment ago he had been rather rude himself.

Morrow nodded briskly and gestured with his hand for Vincent to lead the way.

“It’s the other direction,” Vincent said.

Morrow did not respond, but narrowed his eyes a little bit more. Vincent shook his head and started walking, trying to ignore Morrow’s eyes on his back and instead focus on the sound of the wheels turning behind him.

It only took a few minutes to reach the hall where Director Josef’s office was. Vincent pointed out the correct door, and Morrow began to move past him before pausing at his side. He bit his lip and lowered his gaze.

“What?” Vincent said. “Need anything else?”

He sure hoped not. He should have been well at work on cleaning the bathroom by now.

“No,” Morrow said.

“Well then,” Vincent said. “Have a good meeting.” He pushed aside a frisson of jealousy—Someday, he swore, he would become a Gattaca employee for real and have meetings with the directors himself. And then, he wouldn’t feel vindictive towards his coworkers, only the camaraderie of the chosen, those who had created for themselves success. If he had snatched his from the jaws of defeat, he would only be the more proud of his presence in their company.

“Stop,” Morrow called out as Vincent walked away.

“What is it?” Vincent said, pausing at the corner.

Morrow said, “Thank you for showing me the way here. And for helping me get in the other day.”

“Any time,” Vincent said. Was that all? He had thought it would be something dire. Morrow was still staring at the ground in utter embarrassment, so he added, “You’re very welcome. It was nothing. Call it part of my job to help Gattaca’s physicists.”

Morrow nodded and abruptly swiveled his chair and rolled away to knock on the director’s door. Vincent shrugged (despite knowing Morrow wouldn’t see it) and headed back to clean the bathroom.

When he spoke to Caesar later, he told the man that Morrow had actually turned out to be a paraplegic, not simply affected by a temporary injury. Caesar grew even more curious, of course, and asked what had caused the paralysis, how he had still managed to get hired, how long ago the accident was—question after question. Vincent could only shrug to most of them.

“Tell me you at least got his first name.”

“No,” Vincent said. “It didn’t come up.” In retrospect, he really should have asked. The man was quite interesting, and even if the name never came in handy again, at least he could have looked up his records and figured out a little more about him.

Caesar shook his head at Vincent’s idleness and told him to get back to work, as if he had never been interrogating him in the first place. Vincent did so.

It could have been quite a while before Vincent found anything else out about Morrow, even his first name. The maintenance staff and the more distinguished workers didn’t interact that often, and Vincent knew sooner or later Morrow would actually figure out how to navigate the Gattaca complex. But Vincent was too curious to wait for a few more weeks to find out something as basic as the man’s name, and he was too aware of Gattaca’s social norms to approach the man and actually question him. He suspected such an attempt would garner little from Morrow but his contempt, no actual answers.

Instead, he carefully observed Morrow and found the location of his work desk, fairly close to the door most likely so that he wouldn’t have to wheel all the way around the room. Fairly considerate for Gattaca’s directors, but then, Director Josef did seem to esteem Morrow’s presence in the company. The desk was already messy after only a week or so of Morrow working there, so Vincent knew his chances would be fairly good. He had worried—the man seemed somewhat snobby and fastidious—but people’s pride didn’t always extend to their workplace, and Morrow was perhaps the type to care more about his personal appearance than his environment.

Either way, it worked to Vincent’s advantage.

He was assigned to clean the main work space only a few days after he had determined his plan, and while he usually spent about half his time there sitting at the computers, pretending to type and occasionally hacking in to see what kind of programs and flight plans the physicists had been working on, today he did something slightly different. He sat down at Morrow’s desk, but instead of examining his notes (and he had an actual notebook lying sloppily beside the computer, honestly, who used those anymore?) or playing with the computer, he sorted through the mess on Morrow’s desk, carefully looking for one thing and one thing only: a hair.

He found several, and tucked them all into a small contained he had brought in the bulky pockets of his janitor uniform. Then he carefully placed all the papers and various objects (and seriously, how had Morrow even managed to create such a mess in only a week?) back where they had been. Hopefully no one would be able to tell he’d been there. He’d been careful not to leave any hair or DNA of his own behind—perhaps some sweat or fingerprints were still on the notebook, but nothing worth noting.

He took the hairs to one of those places that weren’t supposed to exist, where they would give you the records connected with the DNA without asking you why you needed it or whether you had a right to it. Perhaps he felt a bit guilty. But it was hardly an uncommon practice. Every time he’d asked for a job, he knew his possible employer had done the same. He had even heard of lovers doing it without each other’s permission to see if dating was worth the time.

Morrow’s full name, as it turned out, was Jerome Eugene Morrow. Jerome. Vincent rolled the name over his tongue, and rolled his eyes. A grand, strong name for a man so arrogant. A thoroughly valid name, solid and dependable. He smirked a little at the idea of nicknaming him Jerry before moving on to the rest of the profile.

It wasn’t a place that gave you the background of the person with the DNA unless you paid extra, and Vincent didn’t feel comfortable for asking for such a thing. It did, however, read the person’s genes quite thoroughly. Morrow had the heart of an ox and a strong body to match—nothing Vincent couldn’t have guessed. He was not susceptible to illnesses, and had no genetics pointing towards any particular ailments.

He scanned the rest of it, already satisfied that Morrow had a far better lease on life than Vincent or any invalid. The man’s genes were phenomenal, even better than those of most Gattaca navigators. It was no wonder the director had been eager to welcome him to Gattaca. Most likely the only disappointment was that Morrow’s paralysis wouldn’t allow him to go to space. Shame.

The closest thing Morrow had to a risk factor was a chance of clinical depression, and even there the risk was only about one percent. Vincent had paid attention to his psychology class in high school. He knew an illness such as depression was unlikely to manifest without both the possibility inherent in the man’s genetic code and stressful circumstances. Perhaps he could develop depression after being paralyzed from the waist down, a depressing enough experience, but it was only a one percent chance, and up until the accident he must have been living the life of the pampered elite. Vincent shook his head.

Genes said Morrow was destined to a happy life, long and healthy. Well, they had gotten him a position at Gattaca but they hadn’t saved his legs. So in one way at least luck favored him less than Vincent. He would remember it for the future, a piece of encouragement when he was tempted to give up on Gattaca hiring him. Fortune favored who it would, genetic code or no.

///…///…///

Eugene was at least ten minutes late to his meeting with Director Josef, but the director excused him, although not before making it quite obvious that he was overlooking Eugene’s flaws (“your lack of punctuality”) because, of course, with his recent trauma (“after going through such a difficult experience”) he could not be held to the same standards as all of the other Gattaca employees. That and the fact that he was apparently doing excellent work so far, and his genetic code and history were both beyond all expectations.

The attitude left Eugene unsure whether the director was condescending to him because of his paralysis or giving him special privileges because of his ever-so-wonderful genetic code, his incomparable validity. One thing was for certain: Josef was interested in him. Eugene doubted he called all employees into private meetings only a week into their employment, and in truth the discussion was hardly essential. He was asked if the facilities were sufficient to accommodate his disability—he said yes, holding back from mentioning that they barely sufficed. Josef didn’t inquire further. Instead they ended up discussing swimming, the Olympics, and of course Gattaca’s standards, Josef’s favorite topic. Eugene got the feeling he was supposed to be basking in some sense of elitism with the director, feeling companionship with this man who, like him, clearly had the genes of a superior man.

So he smiled, stopped himself from saying anything too cross or inflammatory (which made him hold back about half of what he wanted to say, perhaps more) and accepted a glass of Director Josef’s wine.

He enjoyed the wine. That didn’t change the fact that he hated Director Josef.

He hated everyone at Gattaca. A bunch of snobbish idiots. All right, not idiots—most of them did advanced physics and could probably have worked about a dozen different jobs. It was fashionable for the valid elite to be a renaissance man, as Eugene’s own parents. So they were all very smart. Didn’t change the fact that the most tolerable person Eugene had met at Gattaca so far was still the janitor who had let him into the building his first day at work. That didn’t exactly say anything good about the company. Or perhaps it said something about Eugene himself. He suspected half the reason he had liked the man (to an extent) was the fact that at least around the maintenance, he didn’t have to hide his foul mood.

Still, the janitor had been considerate, if terminally awkward. So Eugene was somewhat pleased when he ran into him again two weeks into his new job, and even more pleased when he managed to hold an actual conversation with the janitor instead of instead of passive aggressively trailing him around Gattaca’s hallways.

See, he could be an adult.

When he ran into the janitor for the third time (although this time not literally, which was nice after their tempestuous second meeting) he was technically already supposed to be at home. It was about an hour after the Gattaca employees had trailed out of the building, and he had already logged in his hours. But he had lingered too long in the bathroom and then realized he had left his cell phone at his desk. Usually he would have just left it there and gone home, too lazy to return and well aware how unlikely it was that anyone would call him, especially over his cell phone rather than his home phone. But it was a Friday, and it was just barely possible he would want it over the weekend. So he rolled his eyes and rolled back to the main work room and hoped no one would notice he was still there an hour after he should have left, with most of the lights in the building turned off to save electricity except where the staff was cleaning up from the busy week.

He managed to evade the questioning gazes of all the janitors until he got to the actual work room. There, among desks and computers and occasional junk like his, he spotted the first person he’d seen since fleeing the same room earlier as soon as the work day was done. Well, he spotted the vacuum first, to be honest, and prepared himself to make excuses as to why he was still there, or perhaps to glare at whoever it was until they let it be. But when he did see the person there, it was the same janitor who he’d met twice already, and he wasn’t cleaning. He was sitting in the chair at the desk (and it was Eugene’s desk, of all the desks in the room!) with his fingers poised over the keyboard, staring at the powered down screen of the computer as intently as the most diligent physicist in Gattaca’s hire.

For a moment Eugene wondered if the janitor was delusional, perhaps the reason he couldn’t get a better job in the first place. Perhaps he was having some kind of a fit or a flashback and believed there was something actually on the computer screen, that he was actually getting work done. If that was the case, should Eugene wake him out of his daze, or leave him be, or perhaps find one of his coworkers who would be familiar with his fits?

He had about decided to go find whoever was the head honcho among the janitors and let him take care of the problem when the janitor’s lips twitched, and Eugene finally recognized the look on his face—not the look of a manic having a hallucination, but the look of a child playing pretend.

Playing pretend at being a Gattaca navigator. Eugene sighed. If he thought too much longer about this it was going to get depressing. Instead, he spoke, breaking the silence that lay in the room like a layer of dust: “That’s my desk.”

The janitor’s head jerked up, and Eugene watched his eyes widen. He could almost hear the thoughts running through the man’s head, confusion, embarrassment, defensiveness. He waited for a response.

Finally, the janitor said, “Uh, sorry to get in your way. I didn’t think anyone was still here.” He stood up (and if he knew how much that small action would mean to Eugene, he would never dream of such great wonders as being an astronaut again) and added, “I’ll just get out of your way now. Sorry.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Eugene said. “It’s just…If you’re pretending to be an astronaut, that’s not the right desk.”

“I wasn’t…”

“I’m not going to outer space,” Eugene said. “I’m just one of the people who sits here on planet Earth and runs calculations. Thoroughly grounded.” His hands pressed against the wheels of his chair. “So if you want to be an astronaut and go to the stars, you should probably sit somewhere else. I’m not exactly dream material.”

The janitor hesitated. Then, slowly, he lowered himself back into the seat at Eugene’s desk. “Just working with the team. That’s the dream.”

“I suppose I do that,” Eugene muttered.

“Yeah,” the janitor said. “Well. It would be the first step.” He smiled, uncertainly. “I suppose I’d like to go to the stars as much as anyone else.”

He crossed his arms when Eugene failed to answer immediately. “Well? Isn’t that your dream too? If you’re working at Gattaca…”

“Not really, no,” Eugene said. “Didn’t really come here for any of that.”

The janitor stared at the blank computer screen. “Then why?”

For some reason, on being asked, all of Eugene’s rationalizations for the life he was living seemed to crumble into dust. He muttered something incoherent and rolled over to the desk, picking up his cell phone which was lying right next to the keyboard of the computer. The janitor blushed and moved the chair back a bit to get out of his way.

“You’re fine,” Eugene said.

“I am sorry. I mean, I’m just sitting in your chair,” the janitor said. “If you need me to get out, I can.”

“No. I’m on my way out now,” Eugene said. “Took me a bit longer than usual, but.” He shrugged. “Have to go home now.”

Home to his huge, empty house, where he could get raucously drunk and yell profanities that would echo against the walls, and wake up in the morning with a sore throat and a headache and the lack of embarrassment that followed the realization that it didn’t matter what he yelled or how loud he yelled it—no one would hear him anyways. Home, he told himself, to sleep off the week and prepare himself for the next, and try to ignore the fact that none of them led anywhere, that he might be living from week to week but in the time since the accident nothing had really changed except that he was in a wheelchair and did regular physical therapy. Home to realize he couldn’t, actually, ignore that fact. Home to ogle his set of kitchen knives and then laugh off the ludicrous notion of staining his clean steel kitchenware with blood.

(If he did it, he would slit his wrists this time. A classic, after all. And considering the fact that no one ever visited his house, there would be minimal interference. It would be less risky this time. And he couldn’t live through another attempt. He didn’t know what he would lose next.)

“Why are you still here?” the janitor asked. “I mean, not that you don’t have a right to be here. But everyone else is gone. And you weren’t at your desk until now.”

Eugene summoned a fake smile and said, “I got lost in thought in the bathroom.”

This was in fact the truth. Said lightly, it sounded like a joke. No janitor had to know that he had spent nearly an hour staring in the mirror, trying to sort out his thoughts and gather the motivation to move, get out of the building and go home. Trying to remember why he bothered living.

“Yeah,” the janitor said, apparently taking his senseless excuse seriously. “I guess everyone does that sometimes.”

Eugene offered another smile in response, unsure what to say. He tucked his cell phone in his pants pocket. “I suppose I ought to be going.”

“Yeah,” the janitor said. “And I should get back to work.” He scrambled out of the seat again and reached for the vacuum.

“Well, good luck with that,” Eugene said. He began to wheel his chair back and then stopped. “By the way, thank you for showing me around those two times.” He extended a hand. “I’m Jerome Eugene Morrow. Call me Eugene.”

Odd. He hadn’t told anyone to call him Eugene in a while. In the Olympics he had used the name Jerome because it seemed more suitable for an Olympic contender, and it had become a habit. Everyone at Gattaca called him either Morrow or Jerome, and mostly Morrow. He had gotten out of the habit of asking people to call him Eugene even though it was the name he had always preferred.

Then again, no need to stand on ceremony and last names with a janitor, and no need to try to use a more dignified name with him either. And with even his parents calling him Jerome lately, it might be nice to hear the name Eugene from someone.

The janitor stared at Eugene’s hand for a moment, then with a laugh said, “Vincent Freeman. Nice to meet you.”

They shook hands, and Vincent’s grip was surprisingly strong. Eugene grinned and squeezed really hard back, until he could Vincent’s fingers grinding together. Vincent grinned right back and squeezed as well, but couldn’t manage to grip as hard as Eugene. When they let go, Eugene laughed. “I won,” he said smugly. The small accomplishment pleased him more than getting into Gattaca had.

Vincent’s smile twitched. Perhaps he was actually mad. Oh well. Eugene had been wanting to mess with Gattaca staff ever since he was hired and holding back the urge. The janitor would have to deal with it.

He waved a sketchy goodbye and as he rolled away he heard the vacuum turn on.


	3. Chapter 3

Jerome Eugene Morrow—or rather Eugene, since for some reason the man preferred the worst possible name of his three options—was still a puzzle.

Vincent tried not to think about him too much. He’d gotten Eugene’s DNA analyzed and that should have shown him everything he needed to know. He’d even talked to him a few times. By now he knew the newcomer as well as he knew anyone in Gattaca, and he suspected better than anyone else in Gattaca knew Eugene. Which should have been enough. The man wasn’t all that interesting.

Nice, of course. Sort of nice. He hadn’t yelled at Vincent for zoning out in his desk, but they still seemed to argue whenever they met and his handshake was absolutely crushing. But interesting? Well, it was like Eugene said. Of all the people working at Gattaca he was the least likely to actually embark on a voyage, the least likely to achieve Vincent’s dream.

Still, it was interesting that Eugene had admitted it. A man like him was not often self deprecating. He had seemed fiercely proud until their last meeting, and not the best of conversationalists either. Now he was still one of the most awkward people Vincent had spoken to at Gattaca, but maybe that was all his earlier standoffish attitude had been—awkwardness. And some of the things he had said had made Vincent curious.

In any case, it wouldn’t have mattered whether Vincent had any interest in Eugene or not. The next time they ran into each other was not of his making. Nor was it a coincidence.

It was Eugene.

Vincent didn’t ask for company. He watched the launches every day on his own. The Gattaca engineers and office workers had grown immune to the magic of them, taking the fact that people were launching into space in tin cans for granted. The janitors still thought the launches were pretty cool but they had work to do, and when they saw Vincent staring absently out the window, they would shake their heads and maybe call out to him, tell him to enjoy himself. Sometimes ironically, sometimes sincerely. Vincent didn’t mind either way. He enjoyed his solitude. When he watched the launches on his own it was easier to pretend that he was one of the astronauts on one of them, or at least feel the tenuous connection stretched out between the roar of the take off and the beating of his own heart.

“Vincent Freeman! Fancy meeting you here.”

Vincent startled. The voice didn’t belong to one of the janitors. He turned from the windows and almost fell (again) on top of Jerome Eugene Morrow himself, who had scooted his wheelchair only inches behind Vincent.

“Sorry,” Vincent said, recovering.

Eugene only raised an eyebrow and smiled genially.

“Um, Eugene,” Vincent said. “Good afternoon. How is work?”

“I’m avoiding it,” Eugene said.

Vincent tried to make a non-judgmental face, but it was difficult when he wanted to scream at the man who was shirking Vincent’s dream job.

He must not have succeeded because Eugene’s smile froze. “Difficult equation. I’m sure giving it some space will help.”

Vincent nodded. “Probably.”

“You aren’t working either,” Eugene said, crossing his arms. “You’re watching the launches. Aren’t you supposed to be…” He glanced over at the mop and bucket sitting on the floor next to Vincent. “Mopping?”

At least the janitors had a right to complain. “It will get done,” Vincent said. “I like watching the launches.”

“I noticed,” Eugene said.

“No one watches them anymore,” Vincent said. “They’ve grown used to them. Even you, and you’ve only been here for a month or so.”

“They’re pretty,” Eugene said dismissively. “But I can’t wheel all the way over to the windows every time one of them goes up.”

“It’s only a couple times a day,” Vincent said. “Most of your co-workers—all of them—could just walk. They stay seated.” He shrugged. “I think sometimes people forget what we’re doing here. Sending people off the face of the planet, into the unknown. It sounds good on a resume, working at Gattaca. People forget our mission, the fact that what we do is incredible. They never look up.”

He stopped, blushing as he realized he’d spoken as if he were a navigator rather than a simple janitor. A valid would never let him get away with that.

But Eugene only stared at him for a moment before looking out the window and saying, “Maybe that’s why I came over. I wanted to see the launch, remember the dream.”

It would have been kind to let him get away with it. So far Eugene had only been polite.

On the other hand, Vincent was tired of valids getting to say whatever they wanted.

“Thought you said it wasn’t your dream,” he said. “Going to the stars or sending people up.”

Eugene frowned.

“You don’t care about the launches,” Vincent said. “Do you?”

Eugene didn’t answer. He stared out the windows, and the expression on his face was one Vincent had seen in the mirror time and again, searching, longing. But he didn’t answer. Which was as good as confirmation. Whatever it was Eugene wanted (and he wanted something, that much was obvious), it was not going up on one of those spaceships.

Vincent let out a sigh. For some reason he had been almost afraid of Eugene saying yes. As if by saying he wanted to watch the launches he would take the moment away from Vincent, make Vincent’s dream somehow less. That wasn’t the way dreams worked, he knew, but he was jealous of his dream, protective. He’d kept it for many years now without flagging in interest. No one, he was certain, dreamed of the stars more than he.

The launch was over, the rocket high up and out of the atmosphere by now. Vincent turned to his bucket and mop. “Shouldn’t you go back to your equations?” he asked Eugene blandly.

“Ah,” Eugene said, starting. “Yes, I suppose so. Good luck with your work.”

“Good luck to you too,” Vincent called after him.

///…///…///

It turned out that, even though Eugene wasn’t subjected to drug tests as regularly as pretty much everyone else on Gattaca grounds, that did not actually mean he could show up to work drunk and get away with it.

Miraculously, it took him a full month of working at Gattaca to test this theory. Of course, it wasn’t a perfect test—he suspected he could still have gotten away with being slightly buzzed as long as he kept quiet about it.

Instead, although he showed up to work mostly sober (couldn’t drive there too drunk after all) he spent his entire lunch break in the bathroom gulping down sweet rum he had brought in his work bag. He had only intended a few sips to ease the day, but fuck it. He never wanted this job in the first place, and it wasn’t a day to play the good boy.

He’d never been good at self control. Always the kid in college who spent half the party drinking and laughing and the other half yelling at people, trying to start fights, tripping over nothing and eventually vomiting. No regrets, really—people at college never took his drunk self seriously and mostly thought it was hilarious to see such a composed, perfect, popular valid completely lose it. He’d hated most of them anyway. Of course, at Gattaca he was sure everyone would be considerably less amused, but that only made him smirk more as he clumsily steered his wheelchair back towards his desk. Director Josef might even be disappointed. Maybe it would teach him a lesson about hiring people based off their genes. Sure, he got a lot of uptight perfectionist prodigies that way—Eugene wasn’t blind; he knew the type Gattaca mostly attracted—but you couldn’t always avoid the screw-ups. Sometimes you would still get a guy who was just trash, and Eugene was the case in point.

He almost ran over a couple people—a woman in a pencil skirt and a blonde bun, two different muscular and clean shaven suited men, none of whose names he could actually remember. The woman, he actually apologized to. She was wearing heels and fell over, which looked pretty painful. She didn’t respond, just gave him a long, skeptical look and hurried off. Probably he had slurred. As for the men, they were almost apologetic, ready to claim the blame for the collision, until Eugene looked them in the eyes and smirked.

Then they skittered off too, emanating confused resentment. One did not expect aggression from the man in the wheelchair. In Gattaca, one did not expect aggression at all. Eugene smiled wider. He was a snake in Paradise.

He headed towards his desk, those who generally sat near him giving him odd looks. By now they were used to him being somewhat more coordinated. There was probably a smell of rum on his breath as well.

He smacked his elbow leveraging himself into his desk chair and swore loudly. Around him, the clack of keys paused as his co-workers took another moment to stare at him.

“What are you looking at?” he asked.

No one answered.

He chuckled. “No answer for me? Here I thought you were all supposed to be geniuses. Genetic brilliance not functioning properly?” He arched his eyebrows. “Or are you just too scared to answer? Too scared to talk to the cripple?”

A couple people laughed uneasily, pretending Eugene meant it all in good heart. One man got up and walked over. Thompson, Eugene remembered. The man’s name was Thompson.

“Look, Morrow, maybe you should quiet down.”

No one ever called him Eugene anymore. It was quite depressing. “Maybe I shouldn’t.”

“Ramirez is already going to get security,” Thompson said. “You want trouble?”

Eugene hadn’t noticed Ramirez leaving—though he couldn’t, actually, remember which one Ramirez was. He didn’t even know if that was a man or a woman. He shrugged. “What comes, comes.”

Looking for trouble? It had been a long time since he’d really looked for anything else. Maybe he would get fired. That would be lovely.

A few minutes of yelling later, security was “assisting him” down the hall. Only two of them, one leading the way and one pushing his wheelchair (which was rude—he hadn’t given permission). Eugene smiled. “Are you kicking me out?” he asked.

The security guard pushing his wheelchair said, “Not yet.”

“Oh? What’s a man got to do to get kicked out around here?” Eugene asked. “If I punched you, would that help my case?”

His fist was already clenched and ready, and he was sure he could twist into a position to get the man in either the face or the neck. Being paralyzed from the waist down had done nothing to his upper body strength, and while he hadn’t punched anyone since before the accident, he was sure he could manage it.

People who touched his wheelchair without his permission were basically trash anyway.

Before he could get around to it, though (he had been waiting to hear the guard’s response) the man turned down a new hallway, as did the woman walking in front of them. They were now in a section of the building Eugene hadn’t been in before. He figured out what it was within seconds, though. Even drunk, there was no mistaking the medical section.

He was wheeled over to a man in a lab coat, who apparently was expecting them. “Mr. Morrow,” he said, peering down at Eugene intently. “Nice to meet you at last. Usually I meet new workers pretty quickly, but with you, it’s been a whole month. I’m Dr. Lamar. I handle drug testing.”

Eugene smiled. “Nice to meet you too,” he said. “So what now? I empty my catheter?” Chances were any piss in there was from before lunch, and would have lower alcohol content. Not that Eugene cared. The sooner he got kicked out, the better.

“Mm, no. Today we’re going to try a blood test,” Lamar said. “I’m going to need you to hold still while I draw blood from your inner elbow. Think you’re capable?” He raised a dry eyebrow.

“Sure,” Eugene said. “Just tell that idiot behind me to let go of my wheelchair before I give him a black eye.” He continued smiling sincerely to show that yes, he did mean that.

Lamar gave the security guard a look.

The security guard backed off. “He’s all yours. But we’ll be within calling distance if he gives you any trouble.” He glared at Eugene.

Eugene snorted. It wasn’t like he’d actually punched the guy. Some people were so touchy.

Lamar, meanwhile, had gotten out a swab and a hypodermic needle. He rolled up Eugene’s sleeve and swabbed it with the cotton.

“How often do these tests come up positive?” Eugene asked.

Lamar said, “Not often. Usually it’s a formality.” And of course a way to check people’s genes, make sure they were who they said they were, but that went without saying. Borrowed ladders weren’t something you talked about casually, and genoism was such a fact of life that it had become something of a joke to remark on it.

Eugene held his arm still with some effort. He wouldn’t have been able to walk in a straight line right now (if he were able to walk at all) but Lamar steadied him and he could still do something as simple as this. Drunk and paralyzed from the waist down, he could still do something as simple as this.

Lamar inserted the needle and was quiet for a moment while the blood went in. Eugene watched. He’d done this routine a thousand times—common practice during the Olympics, high profile events, even college, although of course other methods of drug testing were even more common—but he still got a kick out of seeing the blood leave his vein. Genetic material, the currency of his life. All anyone had ever valued about him. And yet, see how easily it could be sucked out, how divorced it was from Eugene himself. He was entirely separate from the life running in his veins, a parasite of the DNA his parents had chosen for him.

Within seconds it was through, the needle was out, and Lamar offered Eugene a bandage. Eugene accepted (although honestly, who needed one for such a small puncture? But it was only polite) and fumblingly stuck it on.

“Security said you were being very loud,” Lamar said. “They called me before they brought you over, gave me the basics.” He leaned back against his desk. “You know, I didn’t think you’d be the type.”

“I’m sorry,” Eugene said. “I didn’t think we’d met before.”

“We haven’t,” Lamar said. “But people talk. I’ve heard about you.”

“Oh, of course,” Eugene said. “That one cripple who thinks he has a right to work at Gattaca. Bit of an odd one, isn’t he?” He shrugged. There was always talk.

“Odd, maybe. They say you’re quiet,” Lamar said. “But you do excellent work very quickly, and it’s a little intimidating. You’re a perfectionist, but you don’t act condescending to people who don’t do as well. You don’t talk much and you don’t go to company events, but maybe that’s because you just joined up. But you don’t seem shy. You’re an Olympic athlete, but you don’t talk about athletics. You have DNA better than almost everyone even at Gattaca, but you dislike the idea of genetic superiority and get cold when anyone acts genoist.”

“People talk a lot, then,” Eugene said.

“I’m just the drug tester. You can talk to me about anything,” Lamar said. “So they do.”

“Are you going to test my blood or not?” Eugene said, raising his eyebrows. The doctor still had the full tube of blood in his hand, but he hadn’t put even a drop of it in the test machine.

“The main thing people say is that you’re quiet,” Lamar said. “And here you are, screaming at everyone for no reason. Doesn’t sound like you. Care to tell me why?”

“Because,” Eugene said. “I’m drunk.”

Lamar sighed. “I guess you are.”

He emptied the blood tube into the test machine. It came up with first Eugene’s identification information—his company ID and his basic genetic profile. But there was also a beeping sound, and when Lamar hit a button the screen showed high alcohol content.

Lamar shook his head.

“So what now?” Eugene said. Now, he was guessing, was the part where he got fired.

“Protocol would be I talk to Director Josef, and he talks to you,” Lamar said. “Unless you’d like to talk to me now. I can speak on your behalf.”

“You don’t know me,” Eugene said. “You’ve just heard people talk. You aren’t exactly a reference.”

The word reference came out a bit mangled. Lamar looked unimpressed, but his face softened and he said, “I’ve also read your medical file. The accident was two years ago today, correct?”

Eugene didn’t answer.

“You know, you can take a day off,” Lamar said. “Go home, Jerome. I’ll tell the director you were sick.”

From Mr. Morrow to Jerome in ten short minutes. At least he wasn’t saying “Eugene”. That level of familiarity remained reserved, though if Lamar knew Eugene’s preferences Eugene doubted he would hold back.

“You’re terrible at drug testing,” Eugene said.

Lamar shrugged. “It’s up to my discretion to judge if an employee requires disciplinary action. I don’t think you’re quite there yet. Don’t do it again. And get someone else to drive you home.”

Eugene mock saluted. “Yes sir. Wouldn’t want to get in another car crash. Maybe this time I’d actually die.”

There must have been something off about his tone, beyond the base level of drunkenness, because Lamar called after him as he left, “Gattaca also provides therapy for employees. It’s free and confidential.”

“Goodbye, Lamar,” Eugene called back.

The security guards gave him dirty looks on the way out, but he ignored them. He fetched his things from his desk quietly (this time ignoring the stares, which were only more intent now, doubtless wondering if he had just lost his job and was leaving for the last time), headed to the exit and called a cab business. It cost far too much for the city, but why not splurge? After all, it was an anniversary.

As soon as he got home, he would have to down a few more bottles to celebrate.


	4. Chapter 4

Although Vincent’s interest in Eugene was waning (or at least, he tried to tell himself that), to much of the rest of the staff Jerome Eugene Morrow was becoming an increasingly interesting subject. Gossip was rampant. Few of them had actually talked to Eugene except in passing in the halls (“Excuse me, sir.” “No, please, excuse me.”) but everyone had an opinion of some sort.

Janine, the lunch lady, said he had nice manners but terrible eating habits. He only came to the office cafeteria about once or twice a week. Perhaps he did bring his own lunch from home, but she doubted it could be all that nutritional and what was wrong with the cafeteria food anyway? He always thanked her very nicely when he did get food from the cafeteria, and he seemed to genuinely look forward to eating it—though of course, she said, a guy with a smile like that, charming and smooth as butter, could quite possibly be faking it. She’d known the type in her day.

Miguel said that he’d looked Jerome Eugene Morrow up and get this, he had been an Olympic class swimmer. He’d won a gold medal just three years back, and there were pictures of him vaunting it at award ceremonies. You could still find videos of his swimming online and it was incredible. If it weren’t for the man now being a paraplegic and all, Miguel would ask him for workout tips.

Vincent pointed out that hey, Miguel could still ask for tips. It wasn’t like Eugene would have forgotten how to work out in the interim. Miguel blushed and muttered something about Morrow probably getting questions like that all the time and how it would just be a bother. Someone had a mancrush.

Tina said that of course Morrow was quite famous and very fit and very good looking (she said this with a straight face, though if you teased her about it she would turn red pretty quickly) but what really mattered was that he was a decent physicist. He would probably be sent up soon enough if it weren’t for his disability, she said. Which perhaps was an advantage—he could become a steady worker on some of the more complicated programs without needing to leave for missions in outer space. Someone inevitably would point out at this point that Tina was getting pretty invested in Gattaca’s space program lately, wasn’t she? Was she planning on going up soon? Like Vincent?

(Generally being compared to Vincent in this regard was a great offense.)

Caesar pretended he was over the subject. He said that the only thing that really mattered was that Morrow was more or less neat and didn’t create too much work for the janitors. But whenever new gossip about Eugene surfaced he listened ever more carefully than Vincent himself.

Underneath all the gossip, there was an undercurrent of the attitude that Vincent had found in himself when he first learned Eugene was a paraplegic: This man was not like the others. He was imperfect. He was like them, even if he was handsome and a genius physicist and used to be an Olympic swimmer and had the perfect genetic code. He was polite if a bit distant (understandable, they all insisted, and probably a result of shyness rather than valid snobbery) and probably a janitor at heart, despite his polished appearance.

Having actually talked to Eugene, Vincent found it all a little ridiculous. Not that Eugene was a jerk. He was moody, but Vincent generally got the sense that he was an okay guy. But he was a valid, that much was certain. Vincent had seen his entire genetic profile (illegally, but why go into that?) and had spoken to him, and Eugene was valid through and through. The way he generally expected Vincent to be super polite and helpful the first couple times they met—and was still so touchy even when Vincent was, in fact, being super polite and helpful—and of course the way he casually shirked his work when he was a physicist at Gattaca, making three times as much as any of the janitors, and ought to have been grateful. Valid. Very valid.

Still, Vincent supposed Eugene was an okay guy, and although he didn’t contribute much to the gossip (he only had a few conversations to relate, after all) he did keep an ear to the ground. So when the news came in that Eugene had gone on a drunken rampage he heard about it right away.

“He was yelling at the top of his lungs,” Miguel said. “I could hear him even from where I was. Estaba que ladra. Then security came and carted him off to Lamar. I hear he gave them a couple good punches first, though.” He mimed a couple punches himself, making Vincent take a step back.

“Doesn’t sound much like him,” Vincent said. Sure, he hadn’t been a model of manners the first couple times he and Vincent had spoken, but generally he was under control, especially with his co-workers. Getting drunk at work? Punching out security guards? Vincent shook his head. “You sure about that?”

Miguel said, “Well you know, he’s a man. Sooner or later a man has to let loose a little, you know? I wish I’d been in the room to see it.”

Tina said, “Sure. All real men throw temper tantrums at work.” She rolled her eyes at Miguel. “At least he didn’t throw up on the floor. I had to clean that area today, and it was enough of a mess.”

“Let loose, huh?” Vincent said. He remembered the distant look in Eugene’s eyes as he stared out at the launches, wistful and yet so different from Vincent’s own. And the way he’d stared at the ground while thanking Vincent for showing him around, and the awkward pauses in his speech where you could see him censoring himself or his attention drifting.

(“I’m not exactly dream material.”)

He shook his head, bringing himself back to the moment. “That sounds even less like him.”

“What, you two best friends now?” Miguel asked with a laugh. “Oh yeah, I forgot. He watched a launch with you. Clearly the two of you share a deep, unbreakable bond—”

“Shut up,” Vincent said, punching Miguel’s shoulder.

And it was back to work, except for once Vincent was pondering something other than the launch schedule or the time he would have to allow before applying for a position as a physicist here again. Jerome Eugene Morrow was none of his business. But why was he acting so out of character? Not that Vincent had ever believed he had the man pegged, but he had thought he at least had figured out the basics, which did not involve drunken screaming matches. Eugene had dignity. He made snide remarks and talked about philosophy and dreams and charmed lunch ladies and was offended but hid it when Director Josef acted patronizing. Dignity. It was in the lines of his body, always tight and controlled whether he sat up straight or slouched, in his face whether he smiled a fake smile or lifted a sardonic eyebrow. He didn’t lose control. It wasn’t…

Vincent took a deep breath. When had he gotten so invested in Eugene anyway? Maybe he’d get himself fired and Gattaca would be looking for a new physicist, a job opening Vincent could take advantage of to at least apply, even if he would never have a chance. There was no reason for Vincent to be worried.

Still, as he washed the windows he wondered just what could have happened to make Jerome Eugene Morrow “let himself go.”

///…///…///

Actions had consequences, which weren’t always the ones you wanted.

Eugene had hoped the consequence of his fit of misbehavior at work would be the director seeing the light—Eugene had excellent genes but at the end of the day that didn’t make him any less worthless—and showing him the door. An end to working at Gattaca, where he should never have been hired in the first place. An end to the effort towards being the man his parents and society always told him he could be even though he knew in the inside that all he was really good for was swimming.

The consequence he ended up facing was the exact opposite.

Director Josef did call him into his office to have a talk halfway through the work day, but his face on Eugene’s arrival was open and friendly, sympathetic. He didn’t even get up from his desk, and certainly didn’t seem to be angry. “Have a seat, Jerome,” he said. When Eugene awkwardly paused near the door, he said, “Sorry. Make yourself at home. I want to speak with you.”

“Yes sir,” Eugene said, and he wheeled himself further in, directly in front of Josef’s desk. “What about?” he said, meeting the Josef’s eyes as guilelessly as he could.

He had no reason to start bowing and scraping to keep his job. He didn’t even want his job. Somehow he ended up acting subservient anyways. Survival instinct kicking in just when he needed it least.

“I heard you caused a commotion the other day,” Josef said.

Eugene smiled. “A small one. I apologize.”

Josef sighed. “Look, Jerome. I can tell you’re nervous. Don’t worry. I’m not going to fire you.”

What? “You’re not?”

“Of course not,” Josef said. “Kick out a bright young physicist over a small matter like this? Don’t be ridiculous.” He waved a hand dismissively. “But your actions still were over the line, and that’s what we’re here to discuss.”

“I understand,” Eugene said. “Sir.”

“I’d like you to be honest with me,” Josef said.

Eugene nodded. “Of course.”

“Lamar says your actions were partially because you were sick with a fever,” Josef said. “Be this as it may, security reports that you smelled of alcohol. Were you or were you not drinking on company grounds during working hours?”

With a mental apology to Lamar Eugene said, “I was.”

He tried to look contrite, but all he could feel at Josef’s disappointed expression was triumph. Too bad, Director. Turns out your latest golden boy isn’t so perfect after all.

Josef said, “It goes against company policy, and you must know that.”

“I know.”

Josef winced again. “And your behavior under the influence was not exactly subtle. You disrupted the working day and verbally abused your coworkers.”

Eugene rolled his eyes. Gattaca was far too uptight and the director far too dramatic. Then he noticed Josef’s eyes on him and immediately rearranged his expression. “I know. It was unacceptable and I am so, so sorry.”

Josef said, “I know you regret what you did, Jerome, but you need to explain to me why.”

Eugene took a deep breath.

The thing was, the truth was exactly the kind of story that would sway Josef. It had been the anniversary of the accident and he’d just been overcome and hadn’t been able to bring himself to ask for a day off because he was too out of it. Josef would like that story. He’d be sympathetic. Of course the anniversary of such a traumatic event would have some sort of effect, and while it was regrettable, it was still understandable. Losing feeling and control of half your body was not a thing you got over easily. He’d be let off, and Josef would give himself a pat on the back for being so kind to a poor man down on his luck.

The truth would work here better than any lie, and he knew it.

He let the breath out again. “I don’t know what came over me, sir.”

“It has to have been something,” Josef said. “Your work and behavior have been admirable up until this point. I’m sure you had a reason.”

“Stress, maybe?” Eugene offered with a smile.

Josef gave him a look.

“I haven’t held a job in years,” Eugene said. “My family’s rich, so I technically don’t need to. I was busy with college at first, and then swimming, and then…” He shrugged. “It took a while to get through the physical therapy needed after my injuries, so…”

“It must have been hard,” Josef said.

Eugene nodded. “Mostly, it’s hard to get back into the swing of things. I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing all the time, and I worry I’ll make mistakes. It just gets to me. I apologize for flying off the handle the other day, though. Stress is no excuse…”

And it really wasn’t. Eugene was sure Josef was going to probe deeper. But instead Josef smiled consolingly and said, “Jerome, you’re one of our best even if you just started here. Your work is pristine, your IQ off the charts. The work here can indeed be stressful, but relax. No one’s going to fire you, no one thinks you’ve been doing badly. You’ve been doing just fine.”

“I got drunk and yelled at my co-workers,” Eugene said. “Not exactly stellar behavior.” He smiled self deprecatingly. “I am so sorry. I swear I can do better.”

“You’ve been under stress,” Josef said. Apparently he had decided Eugene’s subpar excuse was excellent and was going to stick to it like glue. “It was a bad day for you, but I know you can do better. It’s in your blood.”

If Eugene always lived up to his potential, he would have a gold medal in his cabinet instead of the silver. He wouldn’t have wasted the last year drinking and smoking and trying to work his courage up for a second attempt. He wouldn’t have walked in front of a car in the first place. But he didn’t say any of that. Instead, he nodded and said, “I know. I will do better. I am so sorry.”

Josef cut him off before he could apologize again. “No need to apologize. Just don’t let it happen again. Now, I don’t want to keep you from your work any longer. Perhaps we can talk again soon, about more pleasant subjects.”

Eugene smiled. He hoped not. “Perhaps.”

As he wheeled down the hall back to the working area he cursed the director with all the curses he could remember. All he had wanted was to be fired. With his behavior, would that have been so hard? Or at the very least he could have demoted Eugene or suspended him, reprimanded him or given him a pay cut, something to acknowledge that Eugene was not, perhaps, the ideal employee he’d thought he had hired.

But no. Instead, the expectations had been raised. “I know you can do better,” Eugene muttered to himself. Do better. Do better. “Fuck.” He paused in the hallway, pressing a hand hard against his forehead.

Do better.

“Jerome Morrow?”

Immediately he sat bolt upright, hand replaced in his lap as if he’d never been trying to squeeze his own brain into shape. “Yes, that’s me,” he said, swiveling his head to see who had come up behind him. “And you are…?”

It was a woman. A beautiful woman, though that wasn’t saying much—what responsible parents wouldn’t ask the geneticist for their daughter to be gorgeous? Blond hair carefully cinched into a bun that sat near the top of her scalp, not a strand out of place, and an expression so bland it made Jerome want to wince away already.

He knew her. Her working desk wasn’t far from his, and he’d definitely seen her around. He might even have spoken to her a few times. But she wasn’t very outgoing, and he hadn’t been spending his time at Gattaca making friends, and for the life of him he couldn’t remember her name.

“Irene Cassini,” the woman said. “You ran over me yesterday.”

Now Eugene did wince. “Sorry,” he said. “Really, I wasn’t myself. I swear I’m usually more polite than that.” He was doing so much apologizing today. One consequence he definitely did not enjoy.

Irene did not look impressed. “So I’ve noticed.” She leaned against the wall next to Eugene. “Are you well?”

“Who, me? Never better,” Eugene said, waving a hand. “I am terribly sorry though. Please, you have to forgive me.”

Irene actually smiled slightly at that. It was just a slight quirk of her lips, gone in an instant. She didn’t say she forgave him though. “Well then, if you’re sure.” She pushed off the wall and walked ahead of Eugene towards their work.

Eugene called after her, “Really, I’m sorry!” She didn’t respond.

Well, at least someone could tell he was messed up. Though for some reason, disapproval wasn’t as satisfying coming from Irene Cassini as it would have been from Josef. Honestly, it kind of sucked.

It was because she was pretty, Eugene decided as he wheeled slowly after her. Disappointing pretty girls was always worse than disappointing boring old males. Even though he supposed it would be a long time before he found another girl actually interested in him, if he ever did. Girls didn’t go for a paraplegic, even if said paraplegic had the genes of a demigod.

Not that he was all that interested in chasing romance just now. If he was failing this badly just at working at Gattaca, he could only imagine how badly that would go. He wasn’t even good at friendship lately. Even the janitor had gotten annoyed at him the other day, and he still couldn’t pinpoint what he had said wrong, and…

He took a deep breath.

Who cared about Irene? He didn’t even know her, really, and he had apologized. As for his job, well, he hadn’t lost it, which was probably for the best. His co-workers would forget his brief fit of madness by the end of the week, and he could get back to work as usual. And this time he would do better, do better, do better, do better…

The mantra repeated over and over in his mind as he returned to his desk and turned the computer on. He didn’t need Irene’s approval or Vincent’s friendship. He just needed to make it to the end of the week before breaking down again. And with the director’s words fresh in his mind, he had no excuse to fail.


	5. Chapter 5

Eugene made it to the end of the day and home without either breaking down or getting into any more weird conversations, even with the janitor.

And he had settled down on one his lounge chairs with a cigarette and no plans for the evening (he might not even make dinner) when he heard the door upstairs open.

Which.

No one had keys to this place. No one except himself and his parents, who lived a few states away and, while they occasionally called to make sure he was taking care of himself, never visited. And the door upstairs? That was the one that automatically locked. It only unlocked when he pressed a buzzer that, situated as it was on the second floor, effectively meant no one had used that door since the accident.

He blew out a long puff of smoke and tried to remember what to do in the case of home invaders. Before the accident he could have beaten up nearly anyone as long as they didn’t have a knife or a gun, and he’d had some basic self defense training for even those scenarios. Common sense when you were a celebrity, an Olympic swimmer with a rich family. But he hadn’t learned how to protect himself since paralyzing his legs, and it would be a bit harder to do any fighting in a wheelchair. Which he wasn’t even in currently, and if the person who had just come in had functioning ears, they would hear him getting into it. He wasn’t all that graceful.

Footsteps upstairs now. The door hadn’t been his imagination. A pause directly above his head.

Vaguely, he wondered who would break into his house. It was nice, and in a nice neighborhood. And if anyone had been casing the neighborhood for a while they would have noticed that he was the only one living here, and relatively helpless against a robber.

He should have gotten a better security system but had been feeling too apathetic since long before buying the house to consider such safeguards. He should have bought a gun, perhaps, but that would have been too much of a temptation to keep around the house and he hadn’t decided to leave the Earth again. Not yet.

He took a deep breath, inhaling smoke again, and repressed a coughing fit. That was the last thing he needed. Maybe if he was very quiet and sat very still…

…Then the robber wouldn’t come downstairs or wouldn’t notice him sitting in plain sight?

Footsteps on the stairs now. Eugene scrunched his eyes shut and then opened them again—he could already see the outline of a man’s shape between the slats—and picked up the ashtray from the table next to him. Glass and fairly heavy. Also fairly expensive, but there was nothing else nearby, so it was this or nothing.

The man emerged from the stairwell.

Eugene hurled the ashtray full force at his head.

The ash tray smashed against the back of the stairwell with a crash of glass and a yell from the man, who had dodged at the last minute but now had stumbled to the ground from the shock and had his hands up over his face to block any future projectiles. Eugene could see a few places where shards of glass had hit the mark after all, a couple where they had even drawn blood (though most had harmlessly bounced off the man’s suit) and he swallowed. He was out of ammunition, the man was still mostly uninjured, and his mild injuries would likely just make him madder.

After a moment with both sitting extremely still, the man slowly raised himself to his feet and lowered his arms. He scanned the room, eyes focusing on Eugene. He looked at Eugene’s hands (empty), then raised his gaze and met his eyes.

Eugene winced.

Not because the man’s gaze was angry (which it was). Not because he currently stood two feet taller than Eugene and had actual mobility and could easily hurl something back, although that was also true. But because now that the man’s face was visible, it was all too familiar. He knew this man.

“Jerome Morrow. You do this to all your guests?”

Finding his tongue, Eugene said, “Only the ones that break in, German.”

German smiled a small, irritated smile. “You almost cracked my skull. As it is, I still have a couple cuts to clean.” He shook his head. “I’ll say this, you still have a good arm. You have a sink around here?”

Damn right Eugene had a good arm. “Get out of my house, German.”

“Gonna make me?” German asked, raising his eyebrows. He gently patted the left side of his suit coat, which had a slight bulge.

He’d shown Eugene his gun the last time they’d had one of these little talks.

Eugene swallowed. “What, are you going to shoot the cripple? Because you’re a big bad gangster?” He tilted his chin up. “You think I’m afraid of you?”

German laughed and walked down the hall, checking a couple doors until he found the bathroom. Eugene could hear the water turning on. Cursing (loudly enough that he hoped German could hear him) he heaved himself into his wheelchair, which was still sitting next to the lounge chair, and wheeled himself to the bathroom. He paused at the doorway. Maybe he should have brought another projectile with him for good measure, but what use would that be against a gun? He didn’t want to make German twitchy.

Decided, he went in. German was rinsing out a cut on his left hand. Eugene cleared his throat.

“Just a moment,” German said. “I would have talked with you right away but you threw a glass…something at my head. So you can wait.”

“You could have rung the doorbell,” Eugene said.”I do have one.”

“Yes, but we both know you aren’t big on stairs these days. I was doing you a favor.”

“You could have called ahead,” Eugene said. “I would have had it unlocked by the time you got here.” Even though no one had actually used that door in months, he could have found a way. “How did you get in anyway?”

“Picking locks isn’t an uncommon skill. You need a better lock on your door, for the record,” German said. “And the last time I called, I believe you hung up on me.”

“Maybe that’s a clue that I don’t want to talk to you,” Eugene said.

German stepped back from the sink. “I’m well aware you don’t want to talk to me.” He smiled. “I’m persistent.”

He reached past Eugene to get a towel off a rack to dry his hands. Eugene grabbed his arm. “Don’t make yourself at home. I. Don’t. Want you here.”

“And it’s cute that you think I care,” German said. He grabbed a towel with the other arm and dried his hands. “Shall we continue this discussion in the living room?”

“Or you could leave,” Eugene said, wheeling after German as he walked back down the hall.

German sat down in the lounge chair Eugene had been using earlier, leaning back comfortably. “We haven’t spoken in about four months now. Shame, really.”

“Shame you couldn’t make it longer. Get out.”

“Not until you’ve heard my proposition.”

“I’ve heard it before. Not interested,” Eugene said. “If you don’t leave now I’m going to call the police.”

German took a deep breath and smiled again, icier than ever. “Jerome. We can play this one of two ways. The first is that you settle down and we talk about this reasonably. The second is that you keep on hassling me, maybe you try to call the police. I have to take out my gun, things get awkward, maybe someone gets hurt. I don’t want trouble. I just want to talk business with a friend.”

Eugene crossed his arms.

The thing about German was that he was a little bit frightening. It wasn’t like Eugene had no experience with violence. He’d gotten into some drunken arguments that ended with a lot of bruises. He’d been attacked once or twice by faith birth fanatics who targeted him as a famous example of genetic perfection achieved by “meddling with nature”. And then, of course, he’d walked his way into a hit and run that one time. He was accustomed to violence, to an extent. It was comfortable.

But Eugene used to be able to defend himself a lot better than he could now. And the car crash he had intended from the beginning, had controlled. And the fanatics and the drunken idiots he’d had to deal with in the past had all been emotional, enraged. He had been on equal terms with the idiots, who had never intended him any real harm in the first place. And the fanatics, while a bit scarier, had attacked him at public events, where he had help from the police in instants. Violence he could control, violence he could master.

Nothing like German. German who came to him in his home and spoke to him as coolly as if he were a child who didn’t understand a lesson. German who the last time he’d visited actually had pointed the gun at Eugene (it hadn’t been a good night) and had seemed as comfortable with it as if it were a ruler he was flourishing at said child to make a point. German who had no particular grudge against Eugene, no particular emotion towards him at all, and probably would feel only a little regret if he decided to shoot Eugene down in cold blood. German who could talk about these things with a smile on his face.

“Make your proposition then,” Eugene said. “But you’re wasting both our time.”

Now German’s icy smile widened into a genuine grin, and he leaned forward in his chair. “Well, Jerome. It’s been two years since the accident. I believe the anniversary was fairly recent?”

As if he didn’t know it had been yesterday. As if his appearance today was a coincidence. Eugene rolled his eyes and didn’t answer.

“And you’ve been coping admirably,” German said. “Just about finished the preliminary physical therapy, and gotten your head out of the bottle. I half expected to show up and find you drunk, like last time.” He shook his head. “You know, I had nearly given up on you.”

“Please do go ahead and give up.”

“There are some people who can’t take it, psychologically,” German said. “Having a change in fortunes, losing control of their lives. Valids especially. Half of the people I approach are too far gone to be worth the investment.” He plucked a cigarette from the case Eugene had left on the table and lit it. “I can’t connect my invalid clients to people who are too unstable, you know? Ladder borrowing is a partnership. You have to be able to trust your lender with your life.”

He sucked in a breath of smoke and blew it out again, straight into Eugene’s face. Eugene waved it away and glared.

German said, “If the valid’s always getting drunk, he can’t provide clean samples. If he’s too apathetic, he might lose motivation to collect samples at all. Or he might make a stupid mistake and get himself and his invalid partner arrested.” He leaned back in his chair. “I have to be careful with my clients. It’s a responsibility.”

Eugene rolled his eyes. Lectures on the heavy burdens of responsibility that accompanied involvement in what was basically a black market. Lovely.

“Four months ago, I thought I might have to write you off. You were a mess,” German said. “But I gave you a chance, called you a few times, kept my feelers out, and what do you know? You worked it out. I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you, but I didn’t do it to become your merchandise,” Eugene said.

German’s smile dimmed. “Now, is that what you think I think of you?”

“The way a pimp thinks of a prostitute,” Eugene said. “I’m not interested. My body’s mine.”

German shook his head. “Jerome. Jerome, you know that’s not true.”

“I know I don’t want to rent myself out so some invalid can get his kicks.”

German raised a hand. “You can cool it with the self righteous rage, son. I don’t need you to prove to me that you’re a valid.” He lowered his voice. “I don’t need you to prove your worth.”

Eugene’s breath caught. He opened his mouth to retort but German gave him a look.

“You’re a good guy, Jerome,” German said. “Of course no one can deny your genes are excellent. Silver medal in the Olympics. I’d like to see a faith child handle that. And your GPA in college matches your IQ. You’ve proven yourself in those areas more than once.” He blew out a ring of smoke. “And somehow you’re still a good guy beneath all that. Back in the day, you gave some good interviews. Some very anti-genoist comments. You even donated to some organizations combating genoism. So not just talk.”

Speaking against genoism? That gave him credit? Eugene laughed. That was about standards, and in the world of the famous, interviews had little to do with actual beliefs. He couldn’t even remember what he had said in his interviews anymore.

“So I think you’re a good guy,” German said. “I want to help you out.”

“Help me out of my identity. No thanks.”

“You say that very certainly,” German said. “But it’s wearing on you, isn’t it? It was earlier. You’ve never been depressed about your broken back. Never when I’ve talked to you. It’s everything else that bothers you. I can’t heal your broken back, but everything else? That can go away.”

Eugene closed his eyes.

It sounded restful.

It sounded like death.

“You let me pair you up with someone, you lend out your ladder,” German said. “All of this goes away. No more expectations. You won’t have to live up to your genes.” He leaned forward. “Do you think all my valid clients come to me because of accidents like yours? They come because they don’t want the pressure. Helping my invalid clients helps them too.”

“And you just want to help me,” Eugene said.

“I want to help you.”

Eugene said, “My medical records include my back injury now. You’re wasting your time.”

“There are still some who would be interested. I’ve had paraplegics approach me before,” German said. “Usually I can’t help them out. But you’ve already proved people would be willing to overlook your disability for your genes.”

“Lucky me.”

“I have some clients who are desperate, who I’ve never been able to help. Your genes could help them. Paraplegics from birth or early childhood, invalids with even worse luck than most. You could escape this life and give it to someone who actually wants it,” German said. He blew out a mouthful of smoke. “So?”

Eugene paused.

It was true that Gattaca was no paradise, not his paradise at least. It was true that there were others who most likely deserved his genome far more than him. German certainly knew where to hit.

But he only paused to satisfy German, honestly. Because he was trying to pull his life together, not throw it away. He’d only pulled himself out of a rut recently, and he had no desire to seek out a life where he’d end up shut up in the house all the time again, giving his life away to an invalid for cold profit. He knew there were invalids who deserved his life more than he did. He’d known it since he was young.

He just wasn’t that selfless.

“I’m not interested,” he said at last. “And I’d like it if you left my home now.”

German smiled. “Of course.” He stood up. “I just thought I’d drop by and see how you were doing. Tell you the offer was still open.”

Eugene rolled his eyes. “Much appreciated.”

“It will stay open,” German said. He walked to the staircase, pausing when he reached it. “You do seem a lot better. It’s good.”

“Thank you.”

“But you’ll change your mind sooner or later. Call me.”

“Goodbye, German,” Eugene said loudly.

German chuckled. “Goodbye, Jerome.”

Footsteps on the stairs, and then the upstairs door opened and closed again. Eugene let out a sigh. German. One man he hadn’t thought about in a while.

“Call you,” he muttered. “Call the police on you, more likely.” But he knew he wouldn’t—even his threat earlier had been a bluff. German had never hurt Eugene, but he was frightening enough, and rumor had it that others in the black market of borrowed ladders were far worse. Some of them did consider themselves to be warriors against genoism, almost public servants. Some of them were also ruthless killers who wouldn’t hesitate to act against someone who threatened their secrets or their business. Trying to sic the police on them would probably hurt Eugene more than German.

And they did good work, he supposed, for the invalid community. He just wished they would leave him alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who don't remember, German's that gangster dude who brings Eugene and Vincent together in the movie. I don't think his name is mentioned in the movie, but you can find it online. Anyways, I enjoyed his character, though he's probably way OOC here.
> 
> I swear I haven't forgotten Vincent, although he's definitely not as central to this story as Eugene as things currently stand. He'll be around in the next chapter. In the meantime, comments would be much appreciated. Let me know what you think of German, and what you want to happen next.


	6. Chapter 6

“You’ve been busy,” Vincent said.

He’d finally found another chance to talk to Eugene the Monday after the rumors started. Not that he’d been searching for such a chance, but he’d been half hoping to run into him just to verify what exactly had happened the other day. He was as curious as anyone. So when he saw Eugene alone at lunch break, wending his way to the cafeteria very, very slowly, he decided Caesar wouldn’t mind if Vincent left his work for a minute if it meant new fruit on the grapevine.

Eugene glanced up, unsurprised at Vincent appearing at his side. He did stop wheeling forward, though. “I’m a physicist at Gattaca,” he said. “Is that so odd?”

Vincent laughed awkwardly. Eugene’s eyes had settled on him full force, and Vincent had forgotten how intimidating his gaze could be when irked. And apparently Vincent had irked him.

Sensitive jerk.

“Well,” Vincent said. “The first couple weeks you were here we kept on running into each other all the time. I guess I figured it would keep on happening, but we haven’t met in…” He stopped there, because he did know exactly how long it had been, but Eugene didn’t need to know that.

“Maybe I just learned how to navigate the hallways,” Eugene said with a small smile. It wasn’t a smirk and it wasn’t a frown, so Vincent figured it was a good sign.

“They’re very confusing,” he said, circling around to stand in front of Eugene instead of at his side so he wouldn’t have to crane his neck. “I got lost a couple times my first week here too.”

“But now you are the janitor extraordinaire,” Eugene said.

“Yeah, I guess.”

Not like that was something to boast about.

“I guess you really have been busy though,” Vincent said to fill the awkward silence. “People have been talking about you a lot. Most of them seem pretty impressed.”

“Yes, well,” Eugene said. “I am impressive, after all. What do they say?”

“They say you’re pretty good at your work,” Vincent said, searching his mind for the least awkward rumors he could remember. He should never have brought this subject up. “Oh! Miguel mentioned you used to be an Olympic swimmer. Is that true?” He wouldn’t have guessed it from the conversations he’d had with Eugene, but then, they hadn’t talked about much. It might be a sore subject too, since Eugene couldn’t swim anymore.

Actually, bringing it up had been a horrible idea.

“It’s true,” Eugene said. “But that was years ago.”

“Can’t have been too many years ago,” Vincent said. “The last summer Olympics was what, three years ago now?” He didn’t keep track of sports. All the athletes were valid, especially in the Olympics, and he found them generally to be an disgusting show of the elites trying to one up each other even though they were all already too healthy to ever need to be worried about dying at thirty, or finding themselves unemployed any time before them. But that wasn’t something he needed to discuss with Eugene either.

“Was that the Olympics you were in?” Vincent asked..

“Yes.”

“Miguel said you got gold in…” Something. He couldn’t remember what anymore, and he doubted it could be just swimming. Swimming was far too large a category.

“Silver,” Eugene said, with a pained smile.

“Silver, then,” Vincent said. “Sorry.” He was sure Miguel had said gold, but sometimes Miguel exaggerated. And then, Vincent didn’t really commit every single rumor to memory either.

“Don’t apologize,” Eugene said. “It’s certainly not your fault.”

His tone was a little tenser than Vincent would have expected, and his hands had clenched on the armrests of the wheelchair. No, definitely not a good subject. Vincent cleared his throat. “Anyway, that’s what they say about you. That’s pretty cool. Winning the Olympics.”

“Placing second. Not winning.”

Vincent shrugged. Gold, silver. In the Olympics such matters were determined by seconds and inches, and it barely mattered.

“The dream is gold,” Eugene said. He leaned forward. “First place. No one cares who gets silver.”

Vincent nodded hastily.

It occurred to him that perhaps he ought to apologize. After realizing Eugene had no particular dream to become an astronaut and go to the stars and distant planets, he had begun to think of Eugene as a person who lived with no dreams whatsoever. From his tone now, however, he was beginning to realize this was not so. Eugene wasn’t the kind of person who never dreamed. Eugene was the kind of person whose dream had been ripped away from them. He was grounded as thoroughly as Vincent, except the universe had been kind or cruel enough to give him a taste of it first.

Before he could stop himself, he asked, “Do you miss it?”

Eugene blinked. He looked thrown. “Miss what?”

Honestly, it was like they were having two entirely different conversations. “Do you miss swimming? If that was your dream.”

Eugene turned his head, stared out the window. His eyes were wistful, longing. Vincent almost expected, following his gaze, to see a launch going up. But no. There was nothing out the window except warm blue sky, dotted with the occasional cloud like foam in the sea. Not even an airplane broke the plane of endless color.

“I don’t know,” Eugene said. “Sometimes I do. Sometimes I can barely remember it.” He shook his head. “I don’t think I’d want to go back.”

Vincent’s eyes widened. “Why not?”

Eugene smiled and it was the fake smile again, the patented valid smile that always looked obnoxious but especially so on Eugene’s face. “Maybe I just decided not to live in dreams anymore.” He laughed. “I grew up. Did you think it was the accident that made me quit swimming?”

Well, yes.

“I never planned to do another Olympics,” Eugene said. “Even before I broke my back, I already knew it was over.”

He turned and began to wheel his chair forward again, towards the cafeteria.

Vincent kept pace with him. “But why?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think it’s any of your business,” Eugene said. “Sorry to disappoint you. I guess you janitors will just have to talk about something else.”

And on that parting note, he turned a sharp corner, and Vincent didn’t follow him.

Partly because of Eugene’s last taunt, partly because of a feeling in his own gut, Vincent didn’t end up telling anyone much about the conversation. He did correct Miguel, inform him that it had been a silver medal, not gold. Miguel didn’t care, although it got him on another rant about the impressive videos he had seen online. Vincent was half tempted to look them up—it felt a bit like stalking, but was probably still less creepy than stealing Eugene’s genetic material had been. Only, there was a difference between analyzing someone’s DNA and watching them as they lived their dreams. There was nothing personal about DNA, however much some might disagree. But a dream, especially a lost dream, was the most personal thing a person could have.

And probably not the best thing to harp about when said dream really was lost.

For some reason, being around Eugene always made Vincent act like a jerk.

Well, the next time they talked, he would have to find some way to apologize. Better yet, he could pretend the conversation never happened and find something better to talk about. Like…physicist things. Finding out whether gossip among Gattaca’s elite was similar to gossip among their janitors. What Eugene had done to beef up his application when he first was hired by Gattaca (hey, even if they all knew it was a matter of genes, Vincent could always pretend otherwise for politeness’ sake). Something like that. Something casual.

Which meant he was probably never going to get Eugene’s side of the story about the drunken rampage, but oh well. Sacrifices had to be made.

///…///…///

Eugene never really expected Irene Cassini to speak to him again. Himself, he had no plans to seek her out after the awkward failure that was their last conversation. But somehow at the end of the day she showed up next to his desk, and they ended up leaving work together.

It wasn’t his usual.

Still, it wasn’t unpleasant either.

They made small talk about work on a new flight plan, this plan involving some ship to Mars, nothing very special—ships were sent to Mars all the time these days. They were even beginning to work out a colonization plan up there. Eugene wondered if it might be something Vincent would be interested in, if Vincent were even slightly qualified. He still didn’t completely understand why Vincent was so obsessed with going to the stars, although he supposed he could understand attempting to leave the Earth. After all, Eugene himself had attempted a trip to the heavens, though it had been a bit of a low budget effort. Still, if Vincent wanted off, a colony on Mars was probably about the best a man could do—although of course all candidates would probably possess even higher quality genomes than Eugene himself.

He didn’t voice these ponderings. Gattaca employees didn’t like talking about the aspirations of their janitors, even when they were as nice (or at least seemed as nice) as Irene. Instead, he kept to the topic of practical details in the plans and avoided the subject of just why someone might want to go to Mars, apart from the scientific reasons that were the team’s official purpose.

Irene kept equally to the subject, her face as expressionless as ever, her tone bland and professional. She didn’t seem to be enjoying herself much, and she certainly wasn’t saying anything all that personal. Eugene was beginning to wonder why she wanted to talk to him in the first place. Especially when he turned down the hallway that led to the wheelchair accessible exit, not the main one.

But none of his coworkers had really been talking to him since the fiasco last week, and Irene had never talked to him in the first place, and he didn’t want to jinx it. So he didn’t ask.

When they got to the door out of the building, he said, “Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, Irene. It was nice talking.”

She smiled slightly now, the first expression she’d shown since joining him in the hall. “See, I knew you could hold an entire conversation without being rude or nearly running over me.”

“I did tell you. My manners are usually pristine. And I did apologize for that accident last week.”

Irene shrugged. “Well, that’s in the past. You weren’t entirely yourself. Though I suppose who is?”

Eugene raised an eyebrow.

Irene didn’t explain herself. Instead she said, “You seem to be doing better this week, Jerome.”

Eugene nodded. “I suppose it’s been a good day.” Although it was only Monday and the rest of the week could very well still be hellish, today had actually gone quite well. No one had been pressuring him too much, although he could still feel eyes on him pretty much all the time. Director Josef hadn’t called him into his office for a chat about either Eugene’s recent failing or Eugene’s successes and the importance of having workers who excelled in every way at Gattaca. So that was a win.

Still, he knew the actual reason he was in a good mood. “I talked to a friend.”

“You have a friend?” Irene said.

Both of her eyebrows were raised. This was more expression than she’d shown during their entire conversation. Eugene was a little offended. “I’m not completely hopeless, you know.”

“Of course not.”

This was said even more skeptically. Eugene crossed his arms. “What, did you think I never talked to anyone? I just sat at my desk and hated everything?”

“Isn’t that what you usually do?”

It was, actually, what he usually did. Still, she didn’t have to come out and say it. “I have a social life.”

“You don’t talk to anyone at lunch,” Irene said. “You barely speak to anyone during work hours either, and when I came over to you earlier you seemed shocked.”

“That was because you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, Jerome,” Irene said. “Trust me, if I hated you, you wouldn’t know.”

Eugene wasn’t sure how to respond to that. It sounded a lot like a paradox.

“I’m very nice to people I hate,” she said, staring off into the distance. “I don’t talk to them much, but I smile and I’m very polite. Most of the time they think I’m a sweet girl, just a little shy and maybe a little dull.” She shrugged. “They never bother to find out more. Which is convenient. It means that they can be condescending but at least they don’t bother me.”

Ah. Eugene smiled. “I know who you’re talking about.”

“Do you?”

“You’re talking about Director Josef,” he said cheerfully. “That’s all right then. Everyone hates Director Josef.” He wasn’t actually sure if this was true, but he personally hated the man enough that it felt like a universal truth.

Irene started, then actually laughed. It was the least controlled sound he’d ever heard come out of those quiet, carefully glossed lips.

“I’m right, then,” he said.

She said, “You’re right. I was thinking about the director.”

“Well, I’m glad you don’t hate me as much as him. That would be a bit much.” He was a snob and a jerk, but never as bad as Director Josef. There were levels.

“I don’t hate you at all,” Irene said.

“Really?”

“Surprisingly enough.”

Eugene grinned. “Lovely. I don’t despise you either.” He leaned forward, feeling daring. “Would you like to get a drink sometime?”

“Are you asking me out?”

“Are you saying yes?”

“I’m not sure I’d like to get a drink with you. You’re a bit much when you’re drunk,” she said. “How about dinner?”

“Tonight?”

“Not tonight, no. I have plans.”

She probably went out with men all the time. That was fine. “How about tomorrow?”

“How about Wednesday?” she countered. “I’m very free on Wednesdays.”

“Wednesday would be wonderful,” Eugene said.

“It’s a date, then,” Irene said.

She stepped around him, and he stopped himself from grabbing her arm as she passed. She turned back—he had to crane his neck to see her—and said, “I’m glad you’re better, Jerome. Have a good evening.”

“Same to you,” he called after her. He sat there in the hallway for a couple minutes after she had turned the corner back into the building, probably heading to the main entrance, much closer to the parking lot, much closer to the street.

Overall, he thought that had gone fairly well.


	7. Chapter 7

Gattaca wasn’t the only place Vincent ever applied to for work. Obviously getting a job there was his first choice, his dream—there was a reason he’d stuck there as a janitor for years, and the fact that he was unlikely to get any jobs that paid better elsewhere was only a small part of it. He still got a kick out of the fact that as part of the staff, he could watch the launches go up every day for free. People had to pay to get tours of this place. He got paid to hang around it instead.

So Gattaca was the place he had his heart set on, the place where he could already picture himself sitting at one of the desks or climbing onto a launch. But he did apply to other places, places with slightly lower standards, places that were less involved with space travel but still involved tangentially. He figured if he could get an in, there was always a chance Gattaca would be more likely to hire him further down the line.

One such place was McGowan University—not that he thought he could work there as a professor, but there was incredible research being done there in the field of spacecraft and astrophysics. He’d applied there for a job as an assistant almost a month ago, and although he had been calling them once a week to make sure his application was still making the rounds, no bite.

No bite, that is, until Tuesday night.

Tuesday night he was at his trashy apartment, rereading a memoir of a famous astronaut, when the call came on the landline (he couldn’t afford a cell phone with a janitor’s salary).

He picked up, figuring it would be a telemarketer. No one really called him. His friends at work were just that—work friends—and he’d cut ties with his family years ago. The best he could hope for was Caesar telling him he had to work an extra shift. At least then it would be someone he knew.

“Hello?”

“Hello, am I speaking to Vincent Freeman?”

“Yes,” Vincent said. Pretty much definitely a telemarketer then. He didn’t recognize the voice.

“This is Chad Michaels from McGowan University. You applied for work here as a laboratory assistant a month and a half ago, am I correct?”

Vincent straightened his posture, even aware that the caller couldn’t see him. It was the first time the university had called him, although he’d called them at least seven times already. This was either very good or very bad. “Yes, I did.”

“Would you still be interested in the position?”

“Yes,” Vincent said. “I would.”

“Good. Well, you’ll be interviewing with me then. Are you free Thursday at two o’clock?”

Of course he wasn’t. He had work all day Thursday. That didn’t matter. Certainly he wasn’t going to argue about something as simple as time. “Yes, I’m free.”

“Come to the Human Resources Department and ask for Chad Michaels. I look forward to meeting you. My team says you’ve been very persistent.”

“Working at McGowan would mean a lot to me.”

“Well, that’s exactly what we like to hear from a prospective employee. I’ll see you on Thursday.”

Vincent barely got any sleep that night. He couldn’t stop thinking over the phone call. He hadn’t said anything embarrassing, at least. And he was sure he could finagle a way out of work on Thursday.  But it had been months since he’d last had a job interview, and he had the jitters. He’d have to review his notes on how to interview properly tomorrow, as well as his notes on this particular job. Generally he thought he did fairly well at interviews. But he had to do better than fairly well, had to do well enough to impress the fact that he was more than his genes upon the interviewer.

At McGowan University, though, he might have a chance. They were known for being strongly anti-genoist and were known to accept students regardless of genetic deficiencies, sexual orientation, gender or race. A good reputation both in their field of research and as a place of education.

It wouldn’t even be close to working at Gattaca if he got the job, of course. They were considerably further down the ladder. And he knew he would miss being able to watch the launches every day, being able to dream. But there would be more to his life than dreaming. He had determined that the first time he interviewed at Gattaca.

Caesar, as he expected, was willing to give him Thursday off, though he did roll his eyes and rant about the short notice. Still, he gave Vincent a thumbs up. “That’s what determination gets you, kid. An interview at a real job. Someday soon you’re going to be joining the elite, eh?”

Vincent could tell by his tone that he didn’t completely believe what he was saying. Still, he meant well. So Vincent smiled and said, “Not quite yet, but this job would be a step.”

“If they ask you for a reference, I’ll be glad to put in a word,” Caesar said.

“You’re already on the application and the resume.”

Caesar nodded. “Good. Well, I’m sure you’ll do fine at the interview. But you better work hard today and Friday. Taking a day off with only a day’s notice. Psh.”

Caesar might have remained conservative with his optimism, but Vincent’s other co-workers, when they heard the news, were considerably more vocal.

“McGowan’s been doing some serious research these days,” Tina said. “They say they might be able to send up a satellite independently from Gattaca sometime soon. Pretty big deal.”

Vincent nodded noncommittally. For a college research program it was a big deal. Compared to Gattaca, where they sent up three launches a day, it didn’t seem like much. But who was he to get picky?

“Who cares about their research?” Miguel said.

“Miguel!” Tina said, giving him a disapproving look.

Miguel shook his head. “Hey, I’m not saying anything against McGowan. I’m sure they’re ace. But who cares? As long as you get out of this dump…”

“Gattaca is hardly a dump,” Vincent said.

“Sure. We get to be part of something bigger. It’s great,” Miguel said. “Come on guys. We’re mopping the floors. I’m just saying, you get a nice job like lab assistant, you take it no matter who’s offering.”

“I don’t have the job yet,” Vincent said. “And with my luck, don’t get your hopes up.”

“You don’t need luck. You’ve got guts,” Miguel said. “An interview for a lab assistant position! Lord.”

Vincent didn’t listen too much to them, of course. Miguel would get excited over anything and Tina might just be being nice. The thing was, a lot of what they said was true. The position McGowan was offering was good, and it would look good on a resume later on. Being a janitor at Gattaca…well, it was a way to pay the bills. But there was no way he’d let himself get stuck here like Janine or Caesar, even if there were some things about the place he’d miss.

He made a point of finding Eugene at the end of the day and telling him about the possible job offer, although he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps because he knew Eugene would have a level head about it. The man worked at Gattaca, after all. He wouldn’t be wowed at the idea of any position that didn’t involve cleaning bathrooms, and he’d know what getting a good job took. If Eugene thought he was getting overexcited, he was getting overexcited. If Eugene thought he had a chance, well, maybe he had a chance.

Eugene listened silently to the whole story (it was a short story, but Vincent stretched it out a bit) with an intent look on his face. When Vincent was done he nodded and said, “Sounds good.”

“Yeah,” Vincent said. “I’m pretty excited.”

“One step towards the sky, right?” Eugene said. “Your dream.” He smiled. “I’m happy for you.”

Vincent blushed. “Thanks.” He bit his lip. “Do you think I have a chance, though?”

Eugene pondered the matter for a moment. “Well, your resume’s not spectacular, but I’m sure all the people you’ve worked for will say you’re a hard worker. And you have worked at Gattaca, so that’s a point in your favor. And you know the material.”

“I got a degree in astrophysics online,” Vincent said. “Not a famous program or anything, but it’s accredited.”

Eugene nodded. “You probably know more than me. I learned some physics and engineering in college, but my major was computer science and I was more focused on swimming than any of that.”

Vincent shifted awkwardly. “Well, you’re a genius.”

“So Director Josef says.” Eugene sighed, then refocused. “I think your chances are decent. It’s not like you’re applying for an upper level position. Just a job as an assistant.”

“Thanks,” Vincent said.

“What for?” Eugene asked.

Vincent shrugged. “I don’t know.” He hadn’t thanked Tina or Miguel for believing in him, but somehow he felt the need to thank Eugene. Perhaps because on some level he still thought of Eugene as a member of the elite, rather than simply as a friend.

Eugene laughed. “I almost hope you don’t get the job.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry. Things will be boring without you,” Eugene said. “Although I think I made a friend the other day.”

“Oh?”

“Irene Cassini,” Eugene said. “Know anything about her?”

“Not a ton,” Vincent said neutrally. So Eugene was making friends with some of his co-workers. Finally. Perhaps that would stop the rumor mill from calling him antisocial. Perhaps it would stop Eugene from actually being antisocial and get him to mellow out.

“Actually I have a hot date tonight,” Eugene said with a grin.

“Good for you,” Vincent said. “I hope you have fun.”

“And I hope you do well on your job interview. We’ll have to exchange stories Friday,” Eugene said.

With that, they parted. Vincent could still feel a grin stretched over his own face. Things were looking up every which way, and he had a good feeling about tomorrow. A good feeling about life in general, even if for the first time in months he was going to miss out on watching the Thursday launches.

///…///…///

Irene had insisted on driving tonight, so Eugene met her in the parking lot after work. She helped him into the car and they folded up his wheelchair and placed it in the back seat.

From there, they drove straight to the restaurant, a small Italian place that Eugene had visited several times before. He had come a couple times since breaking his back, so the staff no longer stared at his wheelchair as much when they thought he wasn’t looking, now able to take it in stride. They also had excellent lasagna, which was what he ordered every time. Irene ordered the same.

“Do you like lasagna?” Eugene asked.

Irene shrugged. “Sometimes. You said it was good.”

“So you’re just stroking my ego,” Eugene said, raising his eyebrows.

“You’re a little bit paranoid, you know?” Irene said. “Is there anything else on the menu you would suggest instead?”

“See, it shouldn’t matter what I would suggest,” Eugene said. “It’s not like I’m some kind of connoisseur.” She gave him a skeptical look. “Fine. I’ll admit it—I’m a connoisseur. But, you know. Order what you like.”

“I just did,” Irene said.

Eugene said, “Oh.” It was probably rude to keep talking about it. “Well, good.”

Irene smiled lightly. “You’re nervous, aren’t you?”

“Of course not,” Eugene said. “Me, nervous? Never. I’m sure you’ll love the lasagna.” He grinned even more brightly, but Irene only shook her head.

“They call you stoic around the office, you know,” she said. “Not so much since the drunk incident, but before. Still a little bit.” She shook her head. “You really are nervous.”

“Maybe a bit,” Eugene said. “Take it as a compliment.”

“How long has it been since your last date?” Irene asked.

Eugene had to think it over for a minute. His last date…It would have to be that time he went out for drinks with Alex, although Alex had been a lot more into that than he had. That probably still counted—Alex had definitely tried to kiss him, even if Eugene had initially thought it was just getting drinks with a friend. So, a date. The last time he had a date he had enjoyed was too long ago to bother thinking about.

“Four years,” he said, finally.

Irene stared at him.

“What?” he said. “I’ve been busy.”

“You were in the Olympics only three years ago,” Irene said. “You got a silver medal. There must have been girls throwing themselves at you.”

Eugene winced. There had been more than one, certainly. “Yes, well, in the circles I ran in, there were plenty of men like me. It didn’t take long for them to move on.”

“Men like you?”

“Valid, rich, intelligent. Devilishly handsome.” He winked at her. “I’m sure you know the type.”

“You forgot to mention arrogant,” she said. “And yes. I do know the type.”

Judging by her expression (and by her workplace), Eugene was sure she had gone out with more than a few of them in her time. No wonder, really. She was a certain type as well. Also valid, rich and intelligent, and beautiful as well. She would be a smart match for any valid with high standards for his women, and enticing enough to anyone else.

Perhaps his attraction to her meant that he was the same as them. He found he didn’t particularly care. There was plenty about her to like.

“So?” Irene asked. “You thought the women after you were too shallow?”

Yes. No. Maybe? “They were very attracted to the fact that I was an Olympic athlete with a lot of money,” Eugene said.

“And you couldn’t even give them a chance?”

Eugene shrugged. “They had high expectations. I probably could have met them, but…” He shrugged. He had been dealing with enough expectations without having to live up to the expectations of a romantic partner. “I was busy training, at first. I was very focused.” He had forced himself to be focused, beyond even what his coach had considered healthy. It might not have been good for his body but it kept his mind quiet. “And after the Olympics, I suppose it was one thing after another.” And by that he meant it had been a media circus and then alcoholism and then attempted suicide. But that wasn’t something to talk about on your first date. Or possibly ever.

“You’re a workaholic,” Irene said.

More like an alcoholic, but sure. Eugene said, “How long has it been for you, then?”

“One week,” Irene said. “Don’t look so surprised. It’s normal to go on dates fairly often at Gattaca, you know. Once the girls find out you’re available you may find yourself with some offers as well.”

“I was surprised it had been a whole week,” Eugene said. “You said you were busy last night, didn’t you?”

“With a friend,” Irene said. “You didn’t think I had dates every night, did you?”

Eugene said, “Maybe.”

“Funny.”

The lasagna, when it came, was as good as Eugene remembered. He didn’t drink any wine with dinner, although Irene drank a little, promising not to get too drunk to drive. She didn’t mind, probably because she remembered what a fool he’d made of himself the last time he’d been drinking.

Their conversation wandered this way and that. He asked about what she did in her free time (reading, bird watching, hiking, and self defense classes lately) and she asked him the same (reading, and…well, lately that was about it, but she didn’t make fun of him for it). She told him about the companies where she’d worked before Gattaca—only a few, her skills had led her to be hired after just a few years, but refrained from asking him about the Olympics. Probably could guess that in many ways it was a sore subject. They had fun mocking Director Josef, who had been riding Irene’s back lately on a project.

Irene also told him a good deal of office gossip that he had been missing out on by not being connected to the grape vine. A lot of drama, but not more than he would have expected.

“Pretty tame,” he told her.

She gave him a look. “Well, it’s not like we have a lot of murders.”

“Olympic gossip is more exciting,” he said. “All you Gattaca workers are so well behaved.” He shook his head. “Oh well. I’m sure it’ll all explode eventually and it’ll be very fun to watch.”

“It’s because of remarks like that that everybody says you hate working for Gattaca.”

Eugene bit his lip. “It’s nothing personal.”

“Nothing personal but you’d love to see everyone at Gattaca go to Hell,” Irene said.

“Not everyone,” he insisted.

“Mhm,” Irene said. “You know, some of us are quite nice. You should be more social.”

“I’ll try.”

“I’m holding you to it.”

Eugene was fairly certain no one in the world could compel him to join Gattaca’s social circles, but he smiled, appreciating the thought. She was a surprisingly nice woman, though he wasn’t sure why he was so surprised.

And so the night trailed on one way and another, and she drove him home, dropped him off at his house. Before he went to bed he spared a thought for Vincent, whose job interview was the next day. Perhaps when Vincent was working at McGowan it would still be okay. Eugene would still have at least one friend at Gattaca, even if Irene and Vincent were nothing alike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, it's been a while since I've added anything to this story. Sorry. It was a tough chapter to write, weirdly enough. But the ball of plot is beginning to roll. You didn't believe this story had an actual plot, did you? Well. It does.  
> ....Sort of.  
> Anyways, kudos and comments would be much appreciated. Support your local unmotivated writer.


	8. Chapter 8

When Vincent returned to work on Friday, Tina and Miguel were on him in minutes.

“So, genius?” Miguel said. “How about that lab assistant position? Interview go well?”

Vincent shrugged.

“Come on,” Tina said. “Give us some details.” She pulled him over to a bench, ignoring the fact that they were also supposed to be working on the windows. “I’ve never seen McGowan University. Is it as fancy as Gattaca?”

“Not quite.”

Miguel snorted. “I bet it’s not as clean.”

“Nope.”

“But how about the interview?” Tina asked. “I think you said it was with Chad Michaels. He’s supposedly pretty high up.”

“Tina did some research,” Miguel said. Tina elbowed him in the ribs and he laughed.

“I think the interview went pretty well,” Vincent said. “I didn’t have much on my resume, so I couldn’t say much about past experiences. But there weren’t too many questions about that.”

“Well, these days it’s all about qualifications,” Tina said wisely. “You have your degree, so why should they care about experience?”

Vincent shrugged again. It had been pretty weird, honestly. He’d known that was the greatest weakness on his application—he’d worked at Gattaca and done his job well, but he was nowhere near an experienced physicist, even with a degree in astrophysics. He’d spent half the night beforehand coming up with ways to circumvent the question, ways to make his inexperience sound good. He’d printed out some of the emails he’d gotten rejecting him from various positions, the nicer ones that explained that the place simply wasn’t hiring anymore, folded them up and kept them in the inside pocket of his coat. He’d been ready to argue, to defend himself as much as possible. But they’d only asked him a couple of questions about it before moving on.

Well, Eugene had said that might happen. Perhaps his references and his degree did overshadow it. But he still had a sick feeling in his stomach that just wouldn’t go away.

“They asked whether I had leadership skills, people skills, stuff like that.”

“And?” Miguel said.

“You totally do have leadership skills,” Tina said. “I mean, I can’t think of any examples off the top of my head…”

“You’re an inspiration to us all,” Miguel said firmly. “Hey, did they ask about stuff like goals for the future? Or independent study of astrophysics? You’d have that covered.”

“Yeah,” Vincent said. “Lots of questions like that. It was going pretty well. I think they liked me.”

“So? That’s good, right?” Miguel said.

“Yeah.”

There was a moment of silence.

“So?” Miguel said.

“So?” Vincent said.

“You don’t seem to be celebrating.”

Vincent sighed. “Maybe I’m just being paranoid. McGowan has a really good track record with equal opportunity employment. It’s probably nothing.”

Tina and Miguel exchanged looks. Tina raised an eyebrow.

“They asked for a drug test,” Vincent said.

Miguel whistled.

“What kind?” Tina said.

“Piss test,” Vincent said. “Standard.” He shrugged. “At least I’m very efficient at those, if that’s something they’re looking for.”

“It’s probably just company policy,” Tina said.

“Yep. A lot of companies have that policy.”

“You said the interviewer seemed to like you,” Miguel said.

“He did,” Vincent said. “He was very friendly.”

There was another long moment of silence. Vincent got to his feet. He’d checked in with Caesar earlier, conveyed the news as optimistically as possible, and got himself his cleaning supplies. There was nothing like manual labor to keep you from worrying about the future. It didn’t work as well for Vincent now as it used to when he was first hired, but he figured it would at least be better than sitting around talking about it.

“It’s probably nothing,” Miguel said.

“Probably.”

“Yeah,” Tina said. “You deserve this, Vincent. You have all the qualifications. You have passion. They have to hire you.”

“We should be working,” Vincent said. “What will Caesar say if he comes around and sees us slacking?” He grinned. “I mean, he already hates me…”

Miguel sighed and headed off. Tina left too, but not before giving Vincent’s shoulder a brief squeeze. It felt good. His back often felt oddly sore lately. Sometimes he wondered why valids got the intellectual jobs when their bodies were built so much better for labor, but he never thought about it for long. After all, it was close to admitting that valids could do something better than him, which was something he would never do.

He cleaned the windows more meticulously than usual. No matter how he tried to focus on the job, he found himself caught between anticipation and dread. If he got the job, this might be one of the last times he ever washed a window. If he didn’t get the job, he could well be stuck as a janitor forever. Like Caesar.

But he shunted the latter thoughts to the back of his mind. Even if he didn’t get the job, there was always another opportunity, he reminded himself. There was always another day. Sooner or later he would get a better position fair and square. And someday, someday…

His gaze drifted out the window. There was a launch going up. He had forgotten to watch this time.

During lunch break, he told the whole story over again to Eugene. This time the valid had actually been the one to come and find him, and he had actually asked about the interview. It was nice of him, Vincent supposed. He just wished he had better news to share.

“So it went pretty well,” he finished. “Except for the drug test.”

“Hm,” Eugene said, pursing his lips. “I suppose a lot of companies do abuse drug tests these days. I’m pretty sure Gattaca does, actually.” He gave a short laugh at that, although Vincent couldn’t see anything particularly funny about it.

“I wouldn’t have thought McGowan would hire based on genetics, though,” Vincent said.

“They do have a good reputation.”

“Excellent.”

Eugene shrugged. “Well. Sometimes a drug test really is only a drug test.”

“I guess so,” Vincent said. “It’s hard to believe that, though.” He leaned back against a wall. “Besides that, my resume’s kind of spotty.”

Eugene snorted. “Like anyone cares about experience these days.”

Not exactly reassuring, since it only reminded Vincent of what they did care about.

“You’ll have to wait and see,” Eugene said after a moment of silence. “Did they say when they were getting back to you?”

“They said by the end of the week,” Vincent said.

“Well then. I guess we’ll know soon,” Eugene said. “Want to hear about my date with Irene?”

Vincent smiled. With a sigh, he let go of his tension. “That would be nice.”

///…///…///

Irene didn’t even wait to catch Eugene at the end of the day Friday. She stalked over to his desk and sat down on the edge of it, partly blocking his view of the computer.

“Afternoon,” Eugene said. He considered some remark about hindering an important Gattaca physicist at work before brushing it aside—he had no energy for sarcasm, and Irene didn’t really require it anyway. “How’s your day been, darling?”

“Pet names already?” Irene said. Before Eugene could answer, she added, “Where were you at lunch, darling?”

“Talking with a friend,” Eugene said.

“Really now? You weren’t just avoiding society?”

“No.”

“You weren’t just avoiding me?” Irene raised an eyebrow.

“Of course not,” Eugene said. “What? Did you expect me?”

“Well, I was hoping you wouldn’t go back to being a solitary clam,” Irene said. “I was optimistic.”

Eugene winced. “My apologies. The clam tendencies are very strong in me. I was with a friend though.”

“Vincent, right? You’ll have to introduce me sometime.”

“Certainly.”

He put forth a vague effort to be more sociable for the rest of the day. Results were surprisingly good—most of the people he tried to talk to seemed slightly shocked that he was actually talking to them, but still willing to talk. One of them invited him to have drinks with a couple other guys after work, but here Eugene drew the line. He suspected they just wanted to get him drunk again for their own entertainment, and either way he had no particular desire to become one with Gattaca’s elite social circles. He doubted they even frequented the more interesting bars of the city. Probably they’d consider such places too dirty.

Over the weekend, of course, he talked to absolutely no one, but he read a recent magazine, so he was technically still in touch with the world.

He continued his half hearted attempts at socializing the next week. They bore fruit on occasion, to his disappointment—he ended up stuck in more than one long conversation, and even got to know, of all people, Thompson. Probably the stuffiest, most straitlaced person in the department, and Eugene somehow ended up chatting with him for an entire lunch. He was thoroughly disappointed in himself.

Irene seemed to be pleased though. They didn’t go out again this week (Eugene did ask her, but she was yet again mysteriously busy) but he found himself running into her time and again, and she always smiled at him. A half smile, a smile not entirely sure of itself, but still more real than anything her other coworkers had wrung out of her, at least in Eugene’s sight. So basically he was winning.

He saw very little of Vincent that week, probably because of how busy socializing with his supposed equals kept him. But he did finally run into Vincent again on Thursday, and he was quite glad of it.

“I’ve become a person who associates with Thompson,” he told Vincent irritably. “Thompson! Do you even know who that is?”

“No,” Vincent said. “No, I don’t.”

They were sitting in the lobby now, watching yet another launch go up. It was somewhat relaxing.

“He’s an idiot, is what he is,” Eugene said. “He wears bowties. I swear if I am forced to endure another conversation with that twit…” He trailed off. Vincent seemed unfocused. “Is something wrong?”

Vincent cleared his throat. “I heard back from McGowan yesterday.”

For some reason, Eugene had completely forgotten about that. Stupid. His one friend in this place (except Irene, and he wasn’t sure he saw her as a friend, exactly) and he couldn’t even keep track of even the simplest things. It had been so easy to forget about Vincent’s job interview, to forget that his best friend at Gattaca might well be leaving within weeks. Leaving Eugene in the lurch. He’d rather wanted to forget about it.

Still, as a friend it should have been the first thing he’d asked about. At least he could make up for it now.

“So? Did you get the job?”

“No.”

Eugene blinked.

It was a moment of dissonance. One of those moments when you’re completely ready for what you know will happen next—a professor calling your name for attendance in college, the announcer telling you you’d won the men’s four hundred meter freestyle. And then instead, you get something else.

He bit off the congratulations that had already been on the tip of his tongue and instead said, “Excuse me?”

“I didn’t get the job, Eugene,” Vincent said. “Is that so hard to believe?”

Eugene blinked again. The taste of dissonance still strong in the back of his throat, he said, “I thought you said they liked you.”

“Well, they didn’t like me enough.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Eugene said. “Why wouldn’t they hire you? You’re very likeable. You’re a hard worker. I mean, they can’t think you’d slack off—you’ve been working as a janitor for years. You have the degree. It can’t be the experience, no one gives a shit about experience…”

“It was bad luck,” Vincent said.

“Did you have good references?” Eugene asked. “A lot of it can be about who you know. You could use me as a reference if you want. I could talk you up. We could probably talk Director Josef into giving you a reference too, although he’s a bloody snob.”

Vincent let out a huff of laughter. “Director Josef is never going to give a reference to a janitor.”

“I’ll talk to him. Or I’ll call McGowan if you prefer.” His name wasn’t as well known as it had been three years ago, but combined with his family’s status it still had a certain sway, and he was fairly certain he had a couple connections who had connections with McGowan, if worse came to worst.

“Eugene,” Vincent said. “It’s over.”

“Nothing’s over until you say it’s over,” Eugene said. He’d thought Vincent was ambitious.

“Yeah, well, maybe for you,” Vincent said. “You’re Jerome Morrow.”

“As if there’s anything particularly important about that.”

“Well, there’s kind of a difference between an Olympic athlete and a faith birth,” Vincent said. Seeing Eugene fall silent, he added, “Look, I don’t blame you. I’d love to be valid too.”

“You’re thinking about the drug test,” Eugene said.

“DNA test would be more accurate.”

“It wasn’t necessarily that.”

“Yeah, maybe it’s just a coincidence that this has happened the last fifty times I’ve applied for a job beyond manual labor,” Vincent said. “Sounds pretty likely to me.”

“Unauthorized DNA tests are illegal for screening employees,” Eugene said. “If you really think that’s what this is, there are people we can go to.”

“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t,” Vincent said. “You wouldn’t have to scan my genome to know I’m an invalid, Eugene. It’s all over my file.”

Eugene took a deep breath and let it out again. Of course it would be. Valids didn’t work as janitors and maintenance workers for years on end. Even when their life was in a rut and they had no job experience and they were drunk half the time. No, they landed cushy jobs at places like Gattaca and everyone looked the other way when they showed the parts of themselves that were just a little bit unstable.

“It’s not over until you say it’s over,” he repeated, looking Vincent in the eyes.

“You make it sound like I’ve given up,” Vincent said. “I haven’t. Just not McGowan. Not this time.” He turned away. “I should probably get back to work.”

Eugene cursed quietly as he watched Vincent walk away. He felt distinctly as if he were the one who had failed to get the job, even though that was clearly Vincent’s tragedy, not his. Still, he could see Vincent’s future as clearly before his eyes as if he were watching a film. There would be another interview, of course, and another interview after that, and another and another and another. He would fuel himself with futile dreams for years, maybe decades, always smiling the same resolute smile, never ceasing to watch the launches. He would work his fingers bloody day after day after day, make idle chit-chat with the other janitors, pretend that cleaning the floors was another step towards his dream. And someday he would quietly die of a heart attack, and Gattaca would hire another janitor in his place.

Eugene’s fists clenched. It wasn’t fair. Of course, the world wasn’t fair—Eugene knew that much full well, although he was generally the one to reap the benefits of its injustice. His life was written out in as firm a hand as Vincent’s: that he would work a white collar job for most of his life, act as if his achievements actually meant something and hobnob with people as bored and boring as himself. He doubted Vincent would have liked Eugene’s life either. Even with both their lives mixed, things still came out pretty dim.

At home that night, he found the human resources department of McGowan University in the phonebook. He spent about an hour writing out a speech that he would give. Condescending, self righteous, fiery. He would demand they explain why they had refused to hire Vincent. He would demand the universe to bend to his thoroughly valid will.

He spent another twenty minutes hovering over the phone before crumpling the piece of paper with his idiotic speech. Swearing again, he flipped through his personal phone book until he found the number he had never quite gotten up the courage to cross out.

He dialed before he could think better of it. One ring. Two rings. Three rings.

Click.

“Hello?”

“It’s Jerome Morrow. Is this German?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hon hon hon hon hon...Sorry. I haven't updated this baby in a while. But I got a couple of comments lately and so my motivation spiked.   
> This chapter, I knew pretty much exactly what was going to happen, which honestly made it more difficult in a way. Writing plot is hard. :(  
> Anywho, comments and kudos would be much appreciated! And I appreciate the feedback I've gotten thus far.


	9. Chapter 9

German wanted to talk in person.

Logically, Eugene knew that was a good thing. It meant German was taking his proposition seriously, meant that he would have a better chance of selling it. It was a good thing.

He really hadn’t wanted to see German again anytime soon.

But it was Friday evening and German showed up in his flat again, though this time he consented to enter in the back way, which Eugene could open for him, instead of breaking in the front way. He had an indulgent look in his eyes when Eugene opened the door and waved him in, which Eugene elected to ignore. He also still had a conspicuous bulge in his coat pocket, which Eugene ignored as well—though that was a bit harder.

“I never thought I’d see the day Jerome Morrow would invite me into his house,” he said, sitting down on the comfortable lounge chair that was usually Eugene’s seat of choice. “Especially not after the way you greeted me last time. You were very mean.”

“This isn’t about that,” Eugene said.

“Mm,” German said. “You said so on the phone. But you still called me.”

“It’s about a friend.”

German leaned forward. “Yes, of course. I’m always interested in new clients. Have to admit, I didn’t think you’d end up being that kind of connection. Have you been making friends now? That’s good.”

As if Irene being concerned about his social life wasn’t enough. Eugene scowled. He wheeled himself closer to German’s chair. “My friends are none of your business.”

“Except this one, who you want to be my business,” German said. “Is he trustworthy?”

“Absolutely.”

“He can keep his mouth shut?”

Was Vincent good at keeping secrets? Eugene had no idea. They talked about philosophy and gossip, sure, but that didn’t mean he had some sort of chart of Vincent’s talents. The man knew his physics and astronomy and could clean windows—that much he knew. “Of course,” he said in the most offended voice he could manage.

German looked skeptical. “I’ll have to meet him myself. I’m sure you think you know character, but you understand I’m not in a position where I can trust just anyone.”

He leaned forward and rested a hand on Eugene’s shoulder. He could do that, even sitting in a lounge chair. Eugene stiffened.

“Vincent will do fine,” he said. “He’s very intelligent and he’ll be willing to do whatever you want, I’m sure.”

“You’re sure.”

Eugene nodded.

German leaned back. Taking his hand off Eugene’s shoulder, thank God. “A man working at Gattaca is a difficult proposition, you understand. I’m sure his genetics are top notch—they recruit more rigorously than I do,even—but Gattaca’s a very specialized line. A hiring company might be curious why he’d leave that kind of position and take up something so different. People in the same area probably already know what he look like…whole field’s practically incestuous with how they all know each other…of course, I was willing to do it for you, but for someone else…these things are tricky.”

Eugene smiled. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Won’t it?”

Eugene very much wished he had a cigarette out. He’d left his pack in the other room. “You see, he’s not a professional in the field yet. He’s a janitor.”

German stared at him.

Eugene continued to smile. Tightly.

“So you’re saying your friend is an invalid?”

“A faith birth, yes,” Eugene said. “But he’s fully functioning. He could pretend to be a valid easily. Very intelligent, a great intellect, and his body…”

“You’re telling me you brought me out here to talk to me about an invalid?” German repeated.

Eugene crossed his arms. “I understood invalids were half your clientele.”

“Yeah, half of the people I serve are invalids, sure. And I have three invalids waiting for an opening for every valid I know,” German said. “You brought me here for an invalid?”

“I would have been willing to discuss the matter on the phone.”

“You didn’t mention a faith birth on the phone.”

No, he hadn’t. He’d hoped the conversation would go like this, but he’d suspected otherwise. Another reason it was good that German was here in person. Though it didn’t feel good, with German’s cold, incredulous eyes boring into him, and that bulge still in his jacket pocket. He didn’t want to make German too frustrated. Only because he needed the man on his side for Vincent, he reminded himself. There could be no other reason than that.

Jerome Eugene Morrow was afraid of no one.

“I mentioned a friend could use your services,” he said. “I don’t believe I mentioned a valid friend either.”

“Yeah,” German said. “I guess you didn’t. But you knew what I thought, and you let me come out here anyways.”

“He requires your services and I would like to recommend him to you,” Eugene said. “That’s your business, isn’t it?”

German reached into his coat pocket. Eugene tensed, but he only pulled out a box of cigarettes, from which he extracted one slender cigarette which he placed in his mouth. He took his time lighting it and blowing out the first puff of smoke. Trying to stay patient, maybe. Eugene bit his lip.

It didn’t matter whether he agreed to the deal or not, he reminded himself. Not to Eugene personally. Vincent’s professional difficulties were nothing to Eugene really, even if he was trying to do a charitable thing and give the man a hand. Although he doubted most people would count illegal connections as charitable contributions.

As the smoke gathered in a small cloud in the air, German finally spoke again. “So you called me to talk about this invalid of yours.”

“Yes.”

“Because he’s your friend.”

“Yes.” It still felt odd to use the word, but it was true.

“I like you, Jerome,” German said. “I told you last time. You aren’t a snob, no matter how much you act like one. An invalid friend, huh?” He let out another puff of smoke. “Okay. What’s he worth?”

“What?”

“What’s it worth to you?” German said. “He was worth calling me up, wasn’t he? Well, there are an awful lot of invalids out there begging for my help and I can’t help all of them. You’re a nice guy, great reference, but you don’t understand the demand for my services. It’s high, Jerome. Demand for guys like you, not faith births.” He removed the cigarette from his mouth, holding it between two fingers. “So. Make it worth my while.”

“He wants a job at Gattaca,” Eugene said. “Not for the money. For the job itself. I’m sure he’d be willing to pay a large amount of his salary, depending on what the donor agreed to.”

“So would anyone,” German said. “Between you and me, invalids don’t know business. What else?”

Eugene shook his head. “If you’ll meet with him, I’m sure you can work something out.”

“Really?” German said. “What, is he loaded?”

“If you get him the job…”

“I get anyone a job, they’ll have money,” German said. “He’s a janitor. He can’t pay me. Not right now. Demand isn’t high for janitors, Jerome. It’s very high for valids with good genes, high IQs and excellent reputations. So let me ask you again. What is this friend worth to you?”

Eugene leaned back in his wheelchair. German leaned back as well, his cigarette back in his mouth. The smoke continued to accumulate. Eugene wished the nicotine hit were good enough secondhand to steady his nerves. Not so much.

“I’m not selling you my body,” he finally said.

German raised an eyebrow. And of course that was what he wanted. It was all he’d ever wanted, every time they’d talked. It had been stupid to go to him, but Eugene had been a little bit off his game, and he’d been willing to hope that maybe he could make him see reason. That maybe German meant at least a little bit of what he said about wanting to help people.

“I’m not,” Eugene repeated. He wheeled himself back, slightly. “This is a different piece of business. I have no interest in that.”

“And yet, you called me,” German said.

“For a friend.”

“I told you to call me if you changed your mind, and you called me,” German said. He crossed his legs. “I’m not the one who brought it up, Jerome.”

“You implied.”

“I implied nothing,” German said. “But if that’s what it’s worth to you…”

“It’s not.”

“It was the first thing you thought of.”

“It’s the only thing you want!”

German sighed and shook his head. “You make it sound like I’m obsessed. Look, Morrow. I’m interested in business. Good business. A valid like you is good business. A guy like this Victor isn’t.”

“Vincent,” Eugene said.

“Who cares?” German uncrossed his legs. “Look, if that’s what it’s worth to you—if you’d be willing to lend your ladder in exchange for this guy getting to borrow someone else’s—I wouldn’t turn you down. I’d charge your friend the same fees as normal, charge you maybe a little less. I like you, Jerome. I’d be willing to do it as a favor.”

“No.”

“And why not?”

“You know why not.”

“You clearly agree that this is a valuable service,” German said. “You want me to help your friend. It’s only fair to help someone else out in exchange. Like karma.”

“No.”

A slight pause.

German got to his feet. “Fine. I understand.” His voice was quiet, smooth. “You’re afraid. You don’t want to lose your identity. You worry that without your genes, you’re nothing. They’re all you’ve ever been.”

Eugene’s jaw clenched. Don’t yell, don’t yell, don’t yell. Keep your mouth shut. For Vincent.

“If you care about your friend, you’ll do what you have to,” German continued. “You’ll see in time that it will make you happier too.” He walked to the stairs. “I’ll let myself out, hm?”

Eugene smiled bitterly. “Go ahead. It’s clear you don’t actually want to help.”

“I do want to help you, Jerome,” German said. “You just don’t know how to help yourself. When you figure it out, call me. But not until you have a better offer than this.”

///…///…///

Over the weekend, Vincent tried to forget about the interview. He tried to forget that McGowan had been considering hiring him in the first place. Difficult when it had been just about all he’d been thinking about for the past week and a half.

Work on Monday was just depressing. Bad enough on Friday, when he’d only had to get through the day. But on Monday he couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d have to come back in to work every day that week, and every week that year (janitors got very limited vacation time) and every year for the rest of his life stretching far out into the future unless something changed pretty majorly. And at this rate, that kind of change didn’t seem all that likely.

Tina and Miguel were overly cheerful, clearly trying to distract him from his gloom. Tina even suggested that they all go watch a movie this evening, even though they rarely hung out together outside of work. Vincent agreed to make her happy, and it did cheer him up a bit. Still, on Tuesday he was still in something of a funk. He hummed as he worked on his window cleaning and thought about what other places he could apply to, anything so he wouldn’t think about his recent failure.

He got off work a bit early that day, and would have been happy to go home and probably just go to bed, except he was intercepted on his way out by a voice.

“Vincent.”

The voice was unfamiliar and nothing like Eugene’s but still, as he turned, Vincent half expected to find himself facing an annoyed Brit in a wheelchair. Instead, he found a woman, young and blonde and thin, her hair tied back in a tidy bun and her makeup prim but subdued. Her facial expression was equally neutral.

“I’m sorry,” Vincent said. “Did you speak to me?”

The woman extended a hand. Her fingers were long and well manicured and golden-skinned. He had no idea why a woman like this would be accosting a janitor. “My name is Irene Cassini. I believe you are Vincent Freeman.”

And apparently she actually wanted to shake hands with him. He reached forward and hesitantly clasped her hand, while with his other hand he tried to smooth his wild hair down a little. No luck. Well, it wasn’t as if he’d be impressing a woman this beautiful anyway, especially if she was a Gattaca employee—it might be his dream to be one of them, but even he wasn’t blind to their snobbery.

“That’s me,” he said. “Have we met?”

“No,” she said. “I looked your name up in the system. Found your picture. I wanted to talk to you.”

Vincent flushed. “It’s, um. It’s not a very good picture.” As if he looked much better in person, after a long day’s work.

Irene ignored the comment. “You know a friend of mine.”

“I do?” Of course. He’d known something was familiar about her name. “You mean Eugene.”

A single thin blond eyebrow raised in question. “Eugene?” Irene said.

“I mean, Jerome Morrow,” Vincent corrected himself. Most people seemed to call Eugene that after all (and it was a far better name, honestly—that idiot). “Sorry. I call him Eugene. I meant Jerome.”

“Ah. Yes,” Irene said. “I wanted to talk to you about Jerome.”

“Well.” At least it had nothing to do with the interview. It would be a good distraction, especially since he hadn’t actually seen Eugene in a few days. Not since he told him the bad news and Eugene barely accepted it. He wondered if things would be tense the next time they talked.

He cleared his throat. “Do you want to go somewhere? We’re closing up here.” Even if they weren’t, the halls of Gattaca were no place to talk, honestly. Even if they were where he spoke to Eugene, that was only because of happenstance. If his co-workers saw him talking to a pretty physicist they would gossip for days.

All right, he might have been slightly motivated by the fact that she was, in fact, very pretty.

“There’s a nice café just down the street,” he added hopefully.

Irene nodded. “That might be good.”

They took her car, even though it was just a block. Vincent, who usually took the train, was impressed. A nice car, too, with the top rolled down and fresh, unscratched paint. Compact—not big and showy like some of the men who worked here—but still very chic, very nice.

Definitely more than he’d ever be able to afford. Probably more than even Caesar could afford, honestly.

But at the café, when he offered to pay for coffee for both of them, she didn’t object. That didn’t make it a date, of course. They were there to talk about Eugene, and Vincent was pretty sure she and Eugene were, if not dating, still pretty close to it. Still, it made it…something. It made Vincent irrationally happy considering that was a good twenty dollars wasted on ridiculously expensive lattes.

“So,” Vincent said. “Jerome told you about me?” He was well used to calling Eugene either Jerome or Morrow, although he did think it odd Eugene wouldn’t have told Irene his name preferences. Maybe he was embarrassed.

“He mentioned you a couple times,” Irene said. She hadn’t tasted her coffee yet. “He said he had a friend who was a janitor. That surprised me.”

Vincent laughed awkwardly.

“Not because of your job,” Irene said hurriedly. “Or not mostly. I suppose that did make it stranger. But he doesn’t seem like the type to have any friends. He’s rather cold.”

Vincent, who thought Irene seemed rather cold, said, “Really?”

Irene raised an eyebrow. “Yes. He barely talks to anyone.”

“He’s always seemed more the rude type to me,” Vincent said. Well, at least when they first met each other. “I mean, kind of antisocial? Or awkward I guess. He gets better when you get to know him. Somewhat.”

These days when they ran into each other, they tended to say less horribly offensive things and more casual chatter, along the lines of how Vincent would talk to Tina and Miguel except somehow different. Except for the other day, when Eugene had basically refused to admit that Vincent had to give up on McGowan. There had been something in Eugene’s attitude then, something so oddly innocent it had almost made Vincent feel bad for him even though Vincent was the one with the bad news. Eugene acted cynical, but at the end of the day he, too, wanted to believe the world was better than it was. Which it wasn’t.

The world sucked.

Irene had said something, and Vincent had missed it.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” he said. “I guess I zoned out a little.” He smiled sheepishly, pushing thoughts of Eugene’s naiveté aside.

“I said, how long have you known him?”

“I met him the day he arrived at Gattaca. I was the first person he met, actually,” Vincent said. Unless you counted the people who had walked past him near the stairs, carefully ignoring his frustration. And who was going to count those jerks? “Since then, we just sort of run into each other.”

“I suppose he bowls you over too,” Irene said.

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” Irene smiled. Her smile had something patently fake and bland about it. Vincent wasn’t sure why that annoyed him so much—it had something to do with the coffee, somehow. “Would you say you and he are close?”

Vincent shrugged. “Maybe.”

“He can be charming,” Irene said. “Only I think some of that is put on. Well, everyone acts a little at Gattaca. But he seems very uncomfortable. Even when he’s only around me.” She took a sip of coffee. “I was wondering if he ever acted any differently around you.”

Vincent said, “I suppose he seems comfortable sometimes. It’s hard to tell.” He mirrored her, sipping his coffee. “He does seem distant occasionally, but he’s friendly enough once you get to know him. And I’m pretty sure he likes you.”

“Probably.” Irene shook her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ambush you. Only I think I might actually like him too.” She smiled, and her smile was suddenly warm this time.

“Then he’s lucky,” Vincent said.

Irene shrugged the compliment off. “Only he’s worrying. It’s good to see that he really is friends with you, though. I half thought he’d made you up.”

“Yeah. I’m real,” Vincent said. “Really very real. Have been my whole life.”

“Are you sure?” Irene said gravely.

“Well, you looked my records up, didn’t you?” Vincent said. “Those don’t lie. Unless, of course, I’m a degenerate.” He winked. “Lots of people would kill to have the genes for my position.”

He said it as a joke, but as he said it he thought it sounded a bit reminiscent of Eugene. Jerome Eugene Morrow, who hated everything about being a valid and a Gattaca physicist, would probably love to be a janitor instead.

He did not mention this to Irene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love German but wow, what a jerk. Will Eugene sell his genes to him? Hon hon hon...  
> Vincent's section here is kind of filler but we can't leave him and Irene hanging for too long, and Eugene's busy working through this stuff on his own. Also Vincent is totally into Irene but who wouldn't be? Still debating my endgame ship, if I'm even going to have one...  
> Kudos and comments would be much appreciated! It could be a while before I update again because of Nanowrimo, so be warned.


	10. Chapter 10

This was the problem about attempting a somewhat (read: very) illegal enterprise: When you started having doubts, when something went wrong, there was no one to talk to about it.

Not that Eugene really had anyone to talk to anyways—not about things that actually mattered. Except, well, maybe he kind of did. Lately, at least.

He avoided Vincent on Monday, and then again on Tuesday and again on Wednesday, even though towards the end of Wednesday he actually saw Vincent approaching him. He wheeled straight into a crowd at full speed, desperately weaving his way between awkward people and half knocking a couple over. He half expected that Vincent would catch up with him despite his best efforts, but no. He emerged on the other side of the crowd triumphant, the approaching janitor lost.

He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed.

By the time he went home on Thursday, having not spoken to Vincent all week so far, he felt more stressed than he had since the Olympics, about ready to explode.

Honestly, there was no reason for him not to talk to Vincent. Vincent didn’t know that Eugene had tried to get him a…business connection…and failed. Vincent didn’t know that Eugene had put his own selfish desire to keep his identity over helping Vincent achieve his dreams. Heck, even if Vincent did know that, Eugene doubted he would disapprove. It was one thing to try to help a friend out. It was another thing to give up your life for them. Vincent had certainly never asked for that.

Only, the thought of facing Vincent as if nothing had happened, of speaking to him with the same easy enjoyment, the casual work friend again…

Well, nothing had happened.

But still. At the moment he met Vincent’s eyes on Wednesday, bright with recognition and greeting, his body reacted without his even thinking. He had to run away.

Stupid, of course. Stupid. Vincent was probably wondering why Eugene was avoiding him (if he ever bothered to think about Eugene when they weren’t talking, that was). And he had never expected Eugene to do anything. It was all very stupid. But Eugene had never really been all that intelligent, genius IQ notwithstanding.

Meanwhile, he had no one to talk to except his more valid coworkers. The only decent one among them being, of course, Irene.

“You skipped lunch again, Jerome,” she said on Tuesday, stopping by his cubicle. She perched on the edge of his desk, feet not quite leaving the ground. One of her heels slipped out of her high heeled shoe, but it hung onto her toe. He forced his gaze up to meet her eyes, feeling the vague itch you always do when something hangs by a thread.

“I ate it in the lobby,” he said. This was not true. He hadn’t felt hungry today, had skipped his lunch, his breakfast as well. His stomach felt restless, but still not hungry. He’d brought in leftovers of last night’s picked-over takeout, vaguely wanting to avoid the office cafeteria, but the thought of pork fried rice had little appeal.

Not today.

Irene said, “Here I thought you were making so much progress.”

He smiled. “Maybe I’m just hopeless. A leopard can’t change its spots. An antisocial curmudgeonly swimmer…”

“Can eat lunch with his coworkers and enjoy it,” Irene said. “If he’s willing to give it a try.” She met his eyes. “You’ve been in an odd mood lately.”

“I’m always in an odd mood.”

“Odder.”

“A compliment?”

Her lips turned up ever so slightly. At least he amused her. “Would you care to get dinner Thursday?”

His stomach twisted at even the word dinner, not to mention the idea of being stuck making small talk with someone for probably more than an hour. Ridiculous. It had been fun last time. He blew out a breath. “That sounds…good.”

“Make nice to your coworkers and it’s a date,” Irene said, standing up from the desk.

“I’m always nice,” Eugene called after her as she walked away, heels clicking on the tile floor. Which was not true, but it made her pause slightly before she continued walking.

He made an effort to say a few words to Thompson that day. In his book, that was more than nice: that was saintly. The man was more boring than a phone book.

The date on Thursday was not his typical, to the extent that he had a typical dating routine. Irene chose the restaurant for one, the privilege of the asker. A Chinese place. He didn’t tell her that he got Chinese takeout far too often these days anyhow, and instead ordered himself sesame chicken and broccoli, slightly more expensive than the pork fried rice he’d had earlier in the week. And he tried to be interesting and put together and not a wreck.

And he did not mention anything illegal.

“How’s Josef lately?” he asked her, sipping the complementary tea. He could have gone for something stronger—he’d been sipping a little vodka most nights to help him get to sleep, or at least red wine—but this place definitely had some nice flavor to it. And they said tea calmed the nerves.

His nerves certainly needed calming.

“You mean the director? Well, he’s awful,” Irene said. “He’s given me twice the work load of anyone in my section and it’s due Monday. I’ll probably have to do some of it over the weekend.”

Eugene whistled. “My condolences.”

“But that’s nothing new.”

“Things can get old without getting any less annoying. At least he hasn’t called me into his office again lately.” Maybe he was finally realizing that Eugene was an employee at Gattaca, not a trophy.

“Praise the Lord,” Irene said drily.

Eugene laughed.

He traded bits of food with Irene when it arrived. She had gotten herself some kind of savory beef dish, and she didn’t want much of his sesame chicken, but she was willing to try. She ended up giving him more than she took, but when he protested, she told him he hadn’t been eating enough.

“I’ve been eating plenty.”

“Jerome,” Irene said. “You came to the cafeteria the past two days and you barely took a bite.” She took a bite of beef herself as if to punctuate her point. “It’s not healthy.”

Her eyes on his face and throat as he chewed and swallowed were almost clinical, but there was a touch of warmth to them too. Then again, wasn’t that how she always looked?

He wasn’t sure what he loved more: the prim serenity of her face and speech, or the little quirks of emotion whenever it broke. He was getting very used to them. She seemed so often to be pleased at talking to him, and he selfishly hoarded away every smile, every raised eyebrow, every time her eyes met his and softened, just a smidgen. He imagined her pupils dilating. He wasn’t sure if they really did.

“Have you talked to Vincent again?”

He started. They’d been talking about innocuous things, and he’d barely been paying attention. He almost spilled his tea. How did she know? “Vincent?”

“Your janitor friend.”

He cleared his throat. “No. I haven’t seen him all week.” Hadn’t spoke to him, at least.

“Hm,” Irene said. “That’s too bad. He seems like a good companion.” She took a sip of tea. “I met him the other day.”

“Oh?”

That was…odd. He hadn’t thought Vincent was the type to just start talking to random valids at Gattaca, and thought admittedly he’d done so with Eugene, Eugene had rather thought he was the only one. Was he actually just like that with everyone?

“Recognized him from your description,” Irene said. “Thought I’d introduce myself.”

Eugene tried to remember if he’d actually ever described Vincent, and failed. Too many conversations. “Then what did you think of him?”

Irene shrugged. “Well, you can hardly tell from one conversation.”

Eugene didn’t narrow his eyes, but it was an effort. Something about her tone—well, she was always bland, but somehow he felt like she was holding back. He cleared his throat. “You know, he wants to work at Gattaca.”

“Doesn’t he already?”

“Yes, but a bit higher up.” Eugene’s mouth twisted at the pun. “Dreams of the stars.”

“I suppose that’s a typical sort of dream.”

“Is that why you decided to work here?” Eugene asked.

Irene said, “I don’t know. I guess I just sort of fell into it.”

As he would have guessed. Irene might have dreams, but she was no Vincent. No, whatever dreams she’d had, the world had long since torn them apart. That was why she was like Eugene. That was why they got along.

“It would be nice to dream of the stars,” he said quietly. “Don’t you think?”

Irene said, “They aren’t going to hire him.” She paused, and when Eugene didn’t respond she said, “You do know that?”

“Yes, I know,” Eugene said.

They ate their dinner slowly and ended by opening their fortune cookies together. Irene’s informed her that she should, “Be a good friend and a fair enemy.” Eugene’s said, “Never give up. Always find a reason to keep trying.”

Irene laughed lightly. “Do you think I’m fair to Director Josef?”

“If you were fair with him, you would have complained to administration,” Eugene said. “I suppose you’ll have to make do with being a good friend.”

“Are we good friends, Jerome?” Irene said, her eyebrows raised.

Serious or joking?

“The best,” he said, taking a sip of his tea. “As for me…do you think the cookies know I’ve been slacking at work?”

Irene’s smile was a bit more neutral. “Maybe.”

“Well,” Eugene said. “I guess there’s always one reason. My paycheck.” He sighed. “If I have to keep paying for dinners like this I really will need to get moving.”

“I’m paying.”

“No you’re not.”

“I asked you out, so I should be the one to pay. Unless you don’t think…”

They argued over the check for a while and in the end Eugene let Irene pick it up, mostly because it made her look completely satisfied. Today, she even drove him home.

She was someone to talk to, Eugene supposed. Not the same as Vincent but someone.

Only whatever enjoyment he got from talking to her was mitigated by the fact that despite going out to dinner with her, despite discussing one thing and another all evening, he still hadn’t managed to vomit up the one question he really wanted to ask.

Which was: Would she miss him?

If he decided to sell his identity to German and go underground, would she miss him? Was there any point to working at Gattaca instead? Was he doing the right thing?

He wasn’t sure she would have been honest with him if he had asked. And an honest answer to that question scared him more than anything in the world.

///…///…///

On Friday, Eugene was deep into work, trying to actually focus, when a security guard tapped on his shoulder. He glanced up. Couldn’t tell if the security guard was one of the ones he’d become acquainted with a few weeks ago—he’d been too drunk to remember much of the specifics and mostly his brain had just recorded them as buzzing flies—but the guard’s face was fairly neutral, so at the very least he’d probably heard about it.

“Dr. Lamar would like to see you,” the guard said.

Eugene nodded. “All right. Now?”

Yes, now.

Fine, then.

Lamar was as distantly welcoming as he had been the last time. He informed Eugene that he was going to administer another drug test (once again, blood from the inside of the elbow since it was easiest) and Eugene sighed and agreed.

“I don’t see you very often,” Lamar said as he swabbed down Eugene’s elbow to prepare for the needle. “Most people here get drug tested at least every week.” He raised his eyebrows. “I suppose that means you’re a lucky one.”

Lucky that he couldn’t piss as easily because of his back injury. Sure.

“How does it feel to perform a drug test that’s actually a drug test?” Eugene said.

“All my drug tests,” Lamar said reassuringly. “Are real and valid drug tests.”

“And the fact that you get a peek into our DNA is only a nice little side result,” Eugene said. “Nearly every day, though. It seems a little bit paranoid.”

“You’re in an interesting mood,” Lamar said. “I don’t decide the frequency of our tests. I only administer them.”

He drew the blood.

“And what if you did find a degenerate?” Eugene said. “At a company like this. What then?”

Lamar said, “We never have.”

“But you think you might. That’s the reason for the drug tests, after all.”

Lamar looked at him with a very forbearing expression. As if he were dealing with Eugene drunk again, instead of sober and asking some very reasonable questions of a very unreasonable company. “Taking on someone else’s genetic identity is illegal, Jerome.”

“So. You call the police,” Eugene said. “That kind of thing wouldn’t be good for your company’s reputation though, would it? Wouldn’t suit Josef’s philosophy either…if a degenerate were actually able to keep up with work here…”

“We’ve never found a degenerate,” Lamar repeated. “And I doubt we will.” He put Eugene’s blood into the analyzing machine. “But frequent drug tests are company police. Our standards…”

“Are high, yes,” Eugene said. “That’s why there was no penalty for me showing up to work drunk.”

Lamar laughed. Apparently he thought they were bonding over the incident.

They were not bonding.

Someday, Eugene figured, Vincent was going to be “drug tested” by this man. If he ever got into Gattaca, whether by legal methods or no. He wondered whether Lamar would be equally amiable to someone with a less stellar genetic profile.

“And have you been drinking since then?”Lamar said. He hummed, looking at the results on the screen of his analyzing machine. “Well, you aren’t drunk today. But these alcohol levels are concerningly high.”

“As long as I’m sober at work I’m not sure that it’s any of your business.”

“As the drug tester I have to inform you that is incorrect,” Lamar said. “Still, I see no need to report this little alcohol. But I must remind you of the psychiatric care we provide for free for employees, which includes services to combat a dependence on alcohol.”

Eugene saluted him mockingly. “Well, I have been reminded.”

Lamar shook his head. “The one person who really needs to be drug tested regularly, and we’re only scheduled once every few weeks. Try to take better care of yourself.” He was beginning to sound like Irene.

“Yes, yes.”

“Degenerates,” Lamar said with another put upon sigh. “I don’t think any of them would venture here. Security is far too tight. Still…we do what we must. Anyways, an invalid wouldn’t have the skill set for this job—the director is right about that. Most of them haven’t gone to college. Though I suppose the salary would be tempting.” He clicked his teeth. “You know, they say gene dealers are sharks.”

Remembering German’s patient face and voice, Eugene had to suppress a shudder. “Really?”

“I don’t mean that they’re violent—though there’s that too, nasty crowd honestly—but the fees they charge. You’d have to get a salary like yours or mine just to live comfortably with a gene shark demanding half your pay. Things like these, people say they’re all about rights, but really it’s all about money.” Lamar shook his head. “Anyone borrowing a ladder is just digging himself a hole.”

“You give a lot of cautionary speeches,” Eugene said. “But in case you hadn’t noticed, I don’t need that one.”

Lamar said, “Just making conversation.” He held the door for Eugene to leave. “Have a good weekend, Jerome.” But he was already turning to the next person he had to drug test.

As he wheeled down the hall back towards his desk, he found himself smiling the fiercest smile he’d smiled all week.

All about money, huh?

///…///…///

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Click.

“Hello?”

Alone in his silent house, Eugene smiled lightly. “Hello, German.”

A long pause. “You took less time to make up your mind than I expected.”

“I’m not selling you my identity.”

“Indeed?”

“That’s out of the question.”

“Then why did you call?”

All about money. German always put on an act that he was interested in Eugene personally, and Eugene had been almost convinced, in a paranoid sort of way. But Lamar, from a distance, was wiser.

All about money.

“I’d be willing to pay you a considerable sum if you find Vincent a match.”

He held his breath for a long moment before German answered, voice skeptical.

“And what do you think is a considerable sum?”

“How much do you want?”

“You first, Jerome.”

Fuck. He’d wanted to sound German out first. Well, in that case, you always went lower than you expected would be accepted. Way lower. “How does five thousand sound?”

A low laugh. “Jerome.”

“Then what do you want?”

“Offer fifty thousand and I’ll consider it.”

Eugene bit his lip. Fifty thousand. That was slightly less than his salary for a year, but not by much. Of course, his family was rich, but this was a matter of pride. (And he had no intention of making German believe he would dance to German’s tune.) “I’ll offer seven thousand.”

“Jerome.” The same reproving tone.

“Ten thousand, then. You know Vincent will still be paying you his dues. No need to skin me as well.”

“I’ll accept thirty thousand,” German conceded. “But dropping below that…I would only do it for a friend.”

Eugene barked a laugh. “I thought you said you liked me. How about twenty thousand?”

“Twenty-eight thousand,” German said. “And you consider my offer to match you up as well.”

“I’m not lending my ladder.”

“I’m aware. But if you change your mind, you promise to come to me.”

Who else would he come to?

“Fine. It’s a deal,” Eugene said. “When will you see Vincent?”

“Tell me when he’s available. I try to cater to my clients. Oh, and I expect ten thousand of your offer ahead of time. I consider it an advance against future services.”

Shark was right. “I’ll write up a check but you’ll have to pick it up. I don’t exactly have your mailing address,” Eugene said.

“Fair enough.”

“One last thing. Vincent doesn’t hear about this.”

“Oh? You want to be an anonymous benefactor, then?”

“All he needs to know is I’m helping to set him up. He doesn’t need to know about the twenty-eight thousand.”

“Fine with me. Just have the first check ready to go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo...this fic is not abandoned, but it sure updates irregularly. Eugene has solved (for the most part) his German dilemma, though it's a temporary fix. Money is a valid's best friend.  
> I feel like Lamar is most people's fave minor character in Gattaca, not German. I love both of them...but Eugene, of course, hates both of them. My poor angry baby.  
> Comments and kudos would be much appreciated.


	11. Chapter 11

Eugene had avoided Vincent for an entire week.

Vincent had noticed this.

Monday and Tuesday and even to some extent Wednesday could have been coincidental. He and Eugene didn’t talk ever day anyhow, and especially after their last awkward conversation he was in no hurry to seek Eugene out. Not to mention he was feeling some slight residual guilt over having gone on a date with Eugene’s sort-of girlfriend (though he couldn’t quite regret it—Irene was a babe).

On Wednesday, though, it became quite obvious that Eugene was avoiding Vincent on purpose. Vincent caught sight of him towards the end of the day and even caught his attention. Their eyes met for a moment. But as soon as Vincent stepped forward to meet Eugene, only a few yards away, Eugene hurried off into a crowd. So fast that he knocked people over and left a bit of a tangle in his wake.

Enough of a tangle that Vincent couldn’t follow him. Nor would he have. He’d never seen Eugene run away before, not from him or anyone else. There was definitely something going on.

What could scare Eugene about Vincent, though…that was a question. Even if their last conversation had ended awkwardly, that was true of practically all their conversations, both of them stumbling over their own tongues in a weird balance between small talk and philosophical ponderings, unsure of where they were going. Their last conversation had only been about a failed job interview. It was not enough to warrant this.

Maybe Eugene had heard about the pseudo-date with Irene? Maybe he was jealous?

Whatever it was, it left Vincent frustrated. It wasn’t like he needed friendship with a valid snob, but he’d enjoyed it. And he’d never been good at giving people space.

He decided he would give Eugene as much space as he needed, though, whether he liked it or not. It was what a good friend would do.

And then Monday came and Eugene’s attitude changed entirely.

Vincent was cleaning the windows when he came over. He wasn’t even watching a launch, and it was very early in the morning, before lunch, before work was even in full swing. He rolled over to Vincent’s side and cleared his throat loudly. Vincent turned around.

“Are we talking to each other now?”

Eugene gave him a puzzled look. As if he’d never been avoiding Vincent in the first place.

Fine, then. That was something they weren’t going to talk about.

“If you hadn’t noticed, I’m a little busy.” His rag was dripping on the floor even as he spoke, and some poor soul was going to have to mop it up later, quite possibly Miguel. “What’s this about?”

Because Eugene clearly wanted to talk for a reason. His entire body was tense—well, his entire body above the waist, all of his body that he could actually control. And his eyes were lit and focused in a way they rarely were.

Eugene said, “Do you know my address?”

What? Shit. If he’d found out about Vincent looking up his genetic records…but that had been months ago. Would explain why he’d been avoiding Vincent, though. People did it all the time but it was still not exactly acceptable behavior.

Better to play dumb. “How would I know your address, Eugene?” Vincent crossed his arms, ignoring how the rag was now getting his uniform wet as well. Stance was important in situations like this. Asserting dominance.

Eugene shrugged impatiently. Then he rustled around in his pocket for a minute before pulling out a small piece of paper and a pen. He wrote something on the back of it and handed it to Vincent. “Here.”

Eugene’s address was in the outskirts of town, nearing on the suburbs, a very expensive and slightly isolated area. Not exactly surprising. The card also had a phone number written on it, which Vincent assumed was Eugene’s own. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he asked.

“That’s my house and my home phone.”

“I guessed that. What am I…”

“This isn’t a good place to talk. Come over to my house tonight. There’s a…a proposition.” Eugene wet his lips. He smiled nervously. “Just come by after work. Any time, you know I get out earlier than you. I won’t keep you up too late.”

He sounded like a boy trying to convince a conservative girl to go on a date with him. Or, with the proposition part, perhaps not so conservative. Vincent gave him a look. “If there’s something you want to discuss…”

“This isn’t the place for it. If you can’t come tonight, tomorrow. Or call me and we can find a time.” Eugene jerked his head. “I have to get to work. I’ll see you.”

He wheeled away before Vincent could call him back and tell him he needed to explain himself. Obviously on purpose. If he’d really been concerned about getting to work on time he would have met with Vincent later in the day, during a break, instead of at the earliest opportunity when both of them had things they had to do. He really didn’t want to talk about whatever it was at Gattaca. That seemed fairly ominous.

The word proposition was what made it shady. That hardly ever meant anything good, not when a valid was talking to an invalid. If he were a woman he would have thought Eugene wanted to hook up but he was pretty sure Eugene didn’t swing his way, not with his obvious interest in Irene. Other types of propositions: Cheap, under the table labor; drug dealing; gang involvement—none of them really seemed like Eugene but what did Vincent know? Actually, considering how little Eugene cared about his health and that one time he had showed up intoxicated maybe he was into drugs. He wouldn’t be the first valid to use a high end position to cover up some less-than-legal business, nor the last. But why would he try to involve Vincent in something like that?

It was just so out of the blue. Eugene usually seemed, well, a little melancholy but still very respectable in the ways that counted. Proposition.

Vincent sighed. He was over thinking it. Eugene was a good guy, mostly. Word choice didn’t necessarily mean anything. A proposition could just as easily be Eugene trying to convince him to apply to a company where he had connections or trying to get him together with some nice invalid girl he knew. Didn’t necessarily mean anything bad.

In any case it would be interesting to see Eugene’s house. It would be terribly valid, of that he was certain, but he wondered whether it would be neat or disorderly, old and venerable or new and high tech. What sorts of books would he have on the shelves? Would there be any decorations?

Because of course Vincent would be going. If only so he could pass on the gossip to Miguel and Tina, he had to.

Before tucking the card away in his pocket, he turned it over to see what it was—card stock like this wasn’t just scrap paper. “GATTACA Mental Health Services: Here to help your healthy psyche.” Followed by two phone numbers, an office number and an email address.

Huh. Vincent hadn’t even known they had any mental health services here. But then, the insurance covered all sorts of things. Yet more reason to crave a job here.

He turned back to the window, where his last couple swipes had already dried.

///…///…///

Seeing Vincent in his home was strange.

Not that Eugene was one of those snobs who couldn’t picture an invalid in his comfort zone. It didn’t make him cringe that way, although Vincent almost seemed to think it would—he was being careful not to touch anything and always stayed about four steps behind Eugene—but it still made him feel a bit self conscious.

This was his hideaway, after all, his private hell where he self-anaesthetized and escaped from reality for as much time as possible. But Vincent was the most real person he knew. Under his analytical gaze, things Eugene chose to blur out became solid, relevant: photographs of himself with his family or with his silver medal, artistically winding stairs, even the chairs in the lounge. It was a clash, reality intruding into his private nest. He thought Vincent had to sense something of how Eugene felt about the place, how many drunken nights he’d spent sprawled out on the lounge chairs, how many times he’d been tempted to break the glass of the nicely framed photographs. But Vincent seemed to sense nothing. His gaze was analytical but still admiring. Even when he saw the bottles of vodka on the counter he only smirked.

“You want a drink?” Eugene asked. Anything to ease the tension.

“I’d take one.”

Eugene poured them each a mixed drink, vodka and orange juice—they’d want to be sipping for the conversation so shot glasses were no good, but they had to remain mostly sober. He wanted Vincent to loosen up a bit but also to understand what he was saying. And of course if he himself got drunk the night would go all to hell.

“Did you eat anything?” he asked, as Vincent took a small sip. It had not occurred to him, but a janitor got off work late enough that he might not have had dinner. Eugene had already eaten, and he didn’t have much food in the house. He was a terrible host.

Vincent didn’t answer. Instead, he smirked again as he lowered the glass. “The good stuff.”

“What, the vodka? No, I bought it cheap. Sorry.” Eugene grimaced apologetically. “Usually when I’m drunk I don’t care what I’m drinking.”

“You could have let me have my delusions.”

They both sipped again. Eugene said, “You remember I mentioned a proposition I wanted to discuss.”

“That’s why I came over.”

“Well.” Eugene hesitated. Vincent was dedicated to his dreams but he was also a very wholesome sort of person. How did one broach the subject of illegal activity? “How serious are you about getting into Gattaca?”

Vincent stared for a minute. Then, putting his cup firmly down, he said, “You doubt my commitment?”

“I’m asking you how far you would go.”

“You don’t know how far I’ve gone already. I studied physics and astronomy for years out of books on my own because not even online college programs would accept me. I kept myself in peak physical shape even though my heart is supposed to erupt and I have asthma when I exert myself. Because I wanted to be up to Gattaca’s standards.” Vincent clenched his fists. “I took the job as a janitor at Gattaca just so I could get a peek at what it was like. A peek. For that, I was willing to…”

“I didn’t ask what you did,” Eugene said shortly. “I asked what you would do now. If you knew you could get into Gattaca.”

“Anything.”

“Define anything.”

Vincent swallowed. “Are you serious right now?”

“As serious as I get.” Eugene lifted his cup and took a brief swallow, letting the burn in his throat focus him. He raised his eyebrows. “Tell me. Would you leave your life behind?”

“I’d have to. Life as a Gattaca employee would be totally different—for one, I mean, the social protocol is…”

“Move out of your house. Cut all your connections. That’s what I mean by leaving your life,” Eugene said. “Dying to who you are now. Would you do that?”

Vincent shrugged. “Who I am now is nobody.”

It wasn’t true. Eugene wanted to tell him that. Who Vincent was now, janitor or no, was someone very important. He’d made Eugene’s life better at least, and Eugene was sure he’d touched many others, and at any rate he was the kind of person who…mattered, somehow, in some intangible way made the world better by living in it. That, however, was somewhat irrelevant to the conversation. And Vincent’s attitude was the more productive. The kind of attitude German would appreciate.

“And what would you risk?”

“I’ve already told you I would give everything up.”

“What if it was just a chance to get into Gattaca, a chance that could be easily forfeited? Would you still do the same?”

He watched Vincent consider it carefully. Clearly he knew these were more than just hypothetical questions; Eugene was cooking with gas. Good. Vincent had to be serious about this. If not, Eugene was going out on a limb for nothing.

“I’d still do it,” Vincent said at last.

“Would you?”

“A chance is more than I have now. More than I’m likely to ever get.”

Eugene nodded slowly.

“Why did you ask me to come here?” Vincent asked. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “A chance? Is that what you wanted to talk about?”

Eugene took a deep breath and let it out again. If he told Vincent he knew about German’s little ring, technically he still wasn’t admitting to being involved in it—he couldn’t be arrested for that. Besides, no one would take Vincent’s word over Eugene’s if he denied everything, a faith birth’s over a valid’s. It should be safe. He was crossing the line, but he would still be safe. That was the privilege of his birth.

“What have you heard about borrowed ladders?”

Vincent’s eyes widened. He laughed a little. “Are you serious?”

“I said I was, didn’t I?” God, he wanted a smoke, but he’d left his pack of cigarettes in the other room.

Vincent composed his face. “Um, criminal. Definitely against the law. They steal identities from valids in order to pass themselves off as more physically fit or sane. Or just to cover up something about their past.” He burst out with a laugh again, a little hysterical. “Eugene. Where are you going with this?”

Eugene steepled his fingers. “I could set you up.”

“You have to be joking.”

“It’s not stealing an identity, exactly. You connect with a valid who’s willing to let you borrow their name, records and genes for a time. Simple enough. Hardly even immoral.”

“And how would I connect with a valid who would be up for that? You’re telling me you know someone? How would we even get away with that—there are drug tests at Gattaca every day!”

He was nearly shouting. Eugene leaned forward and hissed, “Calm down. You said you would do anything, didn’t you? Or did you mean you’d do anything as long as it was within reasonable boundaries? We both know Gattaca is disgustingly genoist and the law doesn’t do anything about it. Why should you care about illegal, then?”

“You’re suggesting something that’s going to get me arrested.”

“You said you were willing to risk your life.”

“Tell me your proposition, then.”

“I know a man named German.” Eugene paused. Was that even German’s real name? Well, it hardly mattered. “He’s connected with a number of valids who are down on their luck and want someone to take up the fight for them. He’d be willing to connect you with one of them and supply you both with the equipment to fool basically any drug test. In exchange you give him a percentage of your Gattaca salary and promise not to rat him out.”

Vincent frowned. He got out of his chair and began to pace. “I have heard about things like this. You hear about them when people are caught.”

Eugene let him pace. It was a big decision. German had been hassling him about it for so long that for him, it felt like the danger was more letting German get his way than risking his freedom against the government. But for Vincent, this was all new. Eugene would have liked to give him time to think, but German wanted a decision soon. Probably more because he was still annoyed at Eugene than for any practical reason, but at this point Eugene thought it was best to go with what he said.

At last Vincent stopped. He stopped behind Eugene’s wheelchair, so that unless Eugene twisted he couldn’t see Vincent’s face. He didn’t bother. He just waited for Vincent to speak.

“This man could get me into Gattaca.”

“Yeah. Easy.”

“No one would recognize me?”

“I think all you’d have to do is change into a suit. But he’d give you the works. Everything you’d need. So he keeps on telling me.”

“What, he’s tried to get you to recruit invalids before?”

Eugene did twist around now and glare at Vincent. “We’re talking about you right now, not me. Do you want to meet him or not?”

Vincent sagged. “I guess I do.”

“All right then. If you give me your phone number, I’ll give it to him, and he’ll call you. He said he doesn’t want me at the meeting.” Probably just because, once again, he was annoyed at Eugene and didn’t want to deal with him for a while. Understandable—most days, Eugene didn’t want to deal with himself either. And he was just as happy not to talk to German for a while, only he worried Vincent would get swindled without his intervention. But it couldn’t be helped.

Vincent wrote the phone number down on a piece of paper Eugene gave him. He shook his head. “You of all people playing the middle man.”

“I think I’m doing a great job,” Eugene said. He folded up the paper. “So. The proposition’s not mine, it’s his and yours. I’ll tell him to call you soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I know it's been almost a year. Frankly at this point I can't promise this piece will ever be finished. But here's another slice of it. I got a nice review today so I was in the mood and soldiered through another chapter.


	12. Chapter 12

Eugene called German the next day, since he thought German probably wouldn’t appreciate being called in the middle of the night. Admittedly he had very little idea of what German’s schedule looked like, and it seemed like his sort ought to be a night owl. Nevertheless courtesy prevailed, and instead he called just before heading out to work.

German picked up, and he didn’t sound sleepy. But the conversation was decidedly brief. He asked for Vincent’s phone number. Eugene gave it.

“Will you meet with him soon?”

“That’s his business and mine,” German said. His voice had an edge of warning to it.

Eugene wanted to laugh. “Really? So now you’re eager to protect his privacy?”

“He’s a prospective client.”

Eugene really did snort now. “Sure, now that you have your ten thousand. If you don’t take him on, by the way, I want that back.”

“Good luck, kid. You going to give me the eighteen thousand after I meet with him?”

“I’ll give you the eighteen thousand when you tell me he’s settled in with his partner. Not before.” Really he ought to insist that German wait until Vincent was already working for Gattaca just to keep him invested but that could be months and he didn’t know how long German would be willing to wait. This would make German get the first steps done, at least, and from there in he’d have to be motivated by the idea of getting some of Vincent’s salary, and doubtless a certain amount of money from whatever valid he was swindling as well.

Besides, something about making long term plans made Eugene uncomfortable. Like he might lose all his money in the next couple months or Vincent might change his mind or something. He didn’t like thinking too far into the future; it felt too abstract, too malleable, even when he knew that it really was very predictable: he’d still be working at Gattaca for as long as he wanted to, might even get a raise into an administrative position at some point. His salary would remain steady, his job ensured. No risks, no dangers, except those no one could really avoid—fatal diseases and car crashes and the like…

And then he was off the phone with German, unable to remember if the man had even said goodbye before hanging up. He needed to focus more but he had a slight headache and he was tired, and he needed to get to work nonetheless.

Well, he’d done his best. Vincent would have to take it from here.

///…///…///

Vincent was a bit on edge. Couldn’t be helped. Last night had been the craziest night he’d had in quite a while, even more surreal than the night he’d gotten the call from McGowan—had that really been only about two weeks ago? It felt like a long time. As if the world had changed drastically since then. Two weeks ago he’d been ready to go down on his knees for a lab assistant position at a half-rate university. Now he was older, slyer. He could feel a difference in himself even from the person he was early yesterday. He was going to get a job at Gattaca. His will was set in iron on that matter. But he wasn’t naïve enough anymore to think he would get it by any normal means, any legal means. No, he was going to beg, borrow and steal someone else’s ladder. The thought made him shiver a little even now (degenerate was practically a swear word) but it also felt right, as if he’d always known someday he would be this desperate, someday he would decide to take it this far.

His coworkers seemed to have noticed he was off, too. Caesar, rarely solicitous, asked him if anything was wrong, and a couple others came up to him and gave him a pat on the back and asked him how his day was going in oddly friendly voices. Tina and Miguel kept on giving him strange looks during lunch break and finally when they broke apart to do their separate jobs Miguel said in a very nice voice, “Hey Vincent, are there any more launches today?”

“There’s one at two pm,” Vincent said automatically. He’d missed the morning launch today, preoccupied by his own thoughts, but he always knew when they were going up. He memorized the schedule a week beforehand just so he wouldn’t miss any of them. All that seemed petty now.

“You gonna watch it?”

“Yeah, sure,” Vincent said. “I should get back to mopping. See you guys.”

He hurried off, and he heard Tina and Miguel talking in low voices behind him.

So maybe he was not doing a great job of hiding his excitement. It was hard for him to focus on conversation or act casual when he knew that something wonderful was going to happen so soon—wonderful and frightening at the same time. He tried to pay attention to what people said to him but failed. At least his mopping was as good as usual. Muscle memory carried him through the day, and no one could complain about the quality of his work.

He missed watching the launch at two. Only realized that when the day was over. That wasn’t good, that break in habit. It would be an obvious sign that he was thinking about something. And, too, he wondered if perhaps Eugene might have watched it, and might have been waiting for him to come over and join. They were friends again now, after all. Friends and partners in crime. Well, not partners. But Eugene was his enabler, his connection. Now their innocent work relationship had turned illicit. Vincent wondered if, seeing Eugene, he would have been able to keep apprehension, anticipation, off his face.

He took the subway home. The station was only a five minute walk from his apartment. It was hot outside. Summer had set in, and he was wearing his work clothes and a light jacket on top because he hated walking the streets looking like the janitor he was. Sweat began to build up on the back of his neck. It was late in the evening, but the heat would not leave. The night, doubtless, would be long and silent.

There was a man waiting at the door to his apartment.

The man was maybe five and a half feet, not tall at all. He had a widow’s peak but his hair was neat and orderly. A bit of a large nose and an easy smile on his face as Vincent approached. He’d been leaning against the door but as Vincent drew nearer he straightened and held out a hand.

Hesitantly, Vincent shook it. “Hello.”

If this was the connection, he’d worked fast. But he wasn’t sure how to ask that. Couldn’t just ask someone you met on the street whether they were in the business of borrowed ladders.

“Vincent Freeman.” The man pronounced the words as if they were from a foreign language. Yet he seemed entertained by them at the same time. His eyebrows lifted slightly.

“You must be German,” Vincent said.

“Yes. May I come inside? I thought it might be rude to let myself in.”

Vincent laughed a little, awkward. “It’s, uh, it’s locked.”

“Yes. I thought you might not want uninvited guests, considering the neighborhood you live in. Not that I’m uninvited. You did want to see me?”

“Yes.”

German gestured at the door. Vincent fumbled with the keys before sticking one in the lock. His hands were shaking. That was bad, that was a very invalid thing for them to do. He’d thought this morning he had nerves of steel. Now, faced with the man himself, he knew he was still the eager young thing he’d been yesterday.

He opened the door and made way for German, but German stood waiting until he entered, and then followed him in. His gaze swept over the parlor. Ratty couch, optimistically big in case Vincent ever actually asked someone over. A couple half hearted pictures on the wall, none of Vincent himself or of his family but of landscapes, mountains edged against a brilliant night sky. Stacks of books about astronomy, physics, the history of space travel, one or two on legislation regarding equality in the work place that he hadn’t cracked open since realizing they weren’t worth the paper they were printed on. A rug that he’d managed to keep reasonably clean by taking his shoes off before coming in, which he did now.

“You have a nice little place,” German said.

“I try to keep it tidy.”

“If you agree to my proposition, you will have to move out, you understand. Your new roommate might not be as tidy as you.” German smiled a tight smile. “My invalid clients are always achievers—my valid clients, not always so. Well, they certainly do achieve, but they might not always keep a room so neat. They often have frustrating habits. Do you think you could deal with the stress of cohabitation, Vincent?”

“Yes, sir. I’m a janitor. I know how to deal with other people’s messes.”

“Clean living.” German took a pack of cigarettes out of the inside of his coat. “Do you smoke, Vincent?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Most valids do.” German offered him a cigarette and then a lighter, both of which he accepted.

They sat down on the ratty couch. It was a nice couch in its own way, wide and orange and not completely destroyed and very cheap when he got it at a second-hand store, but not really suited for doing business with a gentleman. He winced as he watched German’s suit rub against the worn fabric, even the colors clashing. Well, but German technically wasn’t a gentleman, even if he acted like one. So there was that.

“Tell me what you want from me, Vincent.”

“I…you know.”

“Tell me. If you can’t verbalize it, you don’t have the guts to follow through.”

“I want you to connect me with a valid who will give me his ladder and his genetic material. I want to disguise myself as this valid so that I can get a job at Gattaca. I want to go into space.”

“Ambitious. Like I said. You’re a good match for me, Vincent…apart from your frankly terrible genetics but what the hell, Gattaca judges but I don’t. You know what a Gattaca salary is?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Twenty percent goes to me. Half of what remains goes to your partner. But I’m sure you’re not in this for the money.”

“No, sir.”

German had taken a cigarette out for himself. He took a long, slow drag and then released the smoke into the air. “How much are you willing to give, Vincent Freeman?”

He thought about what Eugene had said, how much he would have to give up from the get-go. “I’d give up ‘Vincent Freeman’, for starters.”

“Well, that’s a given.”

“I’d give up my old life. I’ll even fake my death if necessary—”

“It won’t be, no one cares about a janitor.”

Vincent swallowed before soldiering on. “The money, sure, fine. I’m fine with moving. I’ll change my appearance. I’ll give one hundred percent.”

“And maybe get halfway there…without my help.” German blew out another breath of smoke. “But you’re lucky, kid. I like you. Well, I think you’re okay. And Jerome is head over heels.”

“Jerome? Oh. Yeah.”

“He likes you a lot.”

“I guess we get along.”

“Get along.” German laughed. “He set you up with a connection like me. That’s not just getting along. What’s your connection with Jerome?”

“We’re friends.”

“And how does that work, between a physicist and a janitor?”

Vincent crossed his arms. Why were they talking about Eugene? He’d set up the deal but he wasn’t here, wasn’t really relevant either. “It works fine. When you aren’t a bigot.”

German’s eyebrows lifted. “Okay, okay. I guess we’ve learned you can keep your mouth shut. Oh, and that’s vital, by the way. You being able to keep a secret.”

“I can handle it.”

“If you get caught, you and your partner did all of this alone. You got the equipment alone, you found each other alone. You don’t want to mention me. Trust me on that.” German smiled a wide smile.

Vincent smiled back. His throat was tight. God help him if his asthma came back now—hadn’t bothered him in a long time but this would be just the moment, wouldn’t it? “Once you set me up, you don’t exist to me.”

German wagged a finger. “Except you’re paying me.”

“You’ll get your money.”

“Mm.” German stood. “I think I can hook you up. There’s someone I have in mind, if you can deal with a difficult personality.”

“I think I can handle it.”

“You think or you know?”

“I know. I can handle anything.”

“Good. I’ll be in touch.” German paused at the door. “It’s great, you being protective of Jerome. But you don’t need to protect him from me. I like Jerome. I’m on his side.” He opened the door. “Well, always good to meet one of his friends. Like I said, I’ll be in touch.”

He closed the door behind him.

Vincent heaved a breath. Almost turned into a panic attack, but he grounded himself, clenching his fingers into the material of the couch. He was fine. He was fine. He hadn’t even realized he was frightened, really, until German was gone. But there was no need to be frightened. German was a friend, and he was taking a risk but it would help him. He was reaching toward his dreams; now he might finally get somewhere.

He had a late dinner. It only occurred to him now that he should have offered German something to eat or drink—he wanted the man to like him, after all. But it was too late. Maybe next time, though it was possible they wouldn’t meet here next time, but somewhere else. He’d said he’d be in touch. That wasn’t very concrete.

Vincent wondered how long it might take him. A day? A week? A month? He’d said he had someone in mind, but it might take a while to wrangle. Probably Vincent didn’t need to worry about anything yet. He could relax for a little while.

Really, though, he doubted he’d be able to even relax enough to get some sleep tonight.

He tried calling Eugene to tell him how things had gone—it was his business and German’s, but he thought Eugene, experienced with German, might be able to offer some advice. But Eugene’s line was busy. He wondered if perhaps he was talking to Irene, if the two were arranging a date or laughing over gossip. Things two valids could do, things a valid and an invalid could not as easily. German had been right to question his friendship with Eugene. It was always on the edge of a precipice.

He went to bed. He would see Eugene tomorrow, as he always did.

///…///…///

When Eugene answered the call from German, for the first time perhaps in his life he was eager to hear what the man had to say. “So?”

“So you’ll have to give me the eighteen thousand in…two weeks,” German said. “More or less. You know this business is never set in stone.”

He spoke familiarly, as if they were comrades, which maybe they were now. Still, Eugene didn’t know whether the business was set in stone, how fast it moved or how unsteadily. He didn’t know a thing about the business, but German wanted him to feel like he did, like he and German really were working together. Then he wouldn’t hesitate to bury himself deeper.

Hearing German’s voice made him almost regret connecting the man with Vincent, but it was too late for that. “So you’ll work with him, then?”

“We’ll see how he and his partner match. It’s a precarious thing. There has to be chemistry, and it’s not all physical.”

“Good God. This isn’t a love affair you’re trying to set up.”

“No. It’s a business enterprise, and it’s two men exchanging lives. It’s trickier than a love affair. Closer, more intimate.” German chuckled. “Isn’t that why you’re afraid of it, Jerome?”

“No. You know my reasons.” Eugene huffed. “But Vincent will do fine. I’ll get you the money when you get him connected.”

“He’s a nice boy. I can see why you like him. The kind of guy you just feel bad for. Makes you want to give him a hug.”

“Vincent is a perfectly competent _man_.” Eugene bit back his anger. “Were you calling for anything else?”

“Maybe I just like talking to a friend.”

“We’re not friends. We’re associates. And we’re barely that.”

“I’m proud of you, Jerome. You’re doing a good thing for Vincent, even if he doesn’t know it. Twenty-eight thousand dollars…”

“You know I’ve never cared about money.”

“Good, then, give me the fifty thousand I asked for.”

“German.”

German laughed. “I’ll talk to you later, Jerome. But you sound good. It’s always nice talking to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates continue to be torturously slow. You know what would motivate me on this fic? Nice comments. You know, a sign that someone actually reads it. It helps.  
> But anyways, German is still my favorite character in this fic. Look, he's meeting new people! Eugene is still his favorite though ;) in the worst way. Will the "connection" go through? Hm hm...we'll find out if I ever get the motivation to actually write this thing.  
> Comments would be rather largely appreciated.


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